


Find Comfort in the End

by kjack89



Series: Prompt Drabbles [7]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Bad Flirting, Blood, Break Up, Canon Era, Depression, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Flirting, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Merpeople, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other: See Story Notes, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, sexual innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-19 15:43:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 23,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1475254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A set of unrelated ficlets from Tumblr that are too short to be published on their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. E/R - Angst at IKEA

**Author's Note:**

> I have a few short drabbles from Tumblr that aren't long enough to be posted separately but aren't really short enough to be stuck with the 3-5 sentence prompt compilation so I figured what the hell, may as well start a third prompt compilation. For funsies.
> 
> Each chapter features a different pairing or situation, so check the chapter notes as well as the chapter title to see what you're reading. Fic title is from a C.S. Lewis quote: "If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end; if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth only soft soap and wishful thinking to begin, and in the end, despair."
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos.
> 
> Chapter one's prompt was "Angst at IKEA."

Enjolras and Grantaire held hands as they wandered through the different levels in the IKEA, alternating between laughing at the ridiculous Swedish names, exclaiming at things that were particularly cute, and making faces at the furniture that was particularly ugly, and as they walked, Grantaire leaned against Enjolras, looking content, as he asked, “What did you come here to buy again?”

“I need a new end table in the living room,” said Enjolras, sounding a little distracted as he scoured the living room furniture set up before them. “I swear the one I’m looking for should be with this set…”

Grantaire huffed a sigh and sat down on the couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table, completely ignoring the scandalized looks he received from other shoppers. “What in the world do you need a new end table for? What’s wrong with the one you have?”

Waving his hand dismissively, Enjolras pulled out his phone to verify for the fourth time the name of the specific end table for which he was looking. “I’m putting the one I have with the furniture in the study.”

“Dare I ask what you’re doing with the furniture from the study?” asked Grantaire wryly, rolling his eyes at the sheer amount of furniture (not to mention rooms) Enjolras had in his apartment.

Enjolras checked the tag of the end table in the living room set. “Um, the end table in the study is actually a night stand that belongs with the bedroom set from the second bedroom, and I’m getting rid of the bedroom set from the second bedroom to make room for your art studio stuff—”

Grantaire made a noise that sounded like he was being choked, and Enjolras frowned at him. “Care to repeat that?” Grantaire croaked.

Raising an eyebrow, Enjolras said, “Well I figured since I never use the second bedroom, it’d be a good place to put your art studio when you move in with me – Grantaire, are you alright?”

Though Grantaire had gone roughly the same color as a ghost, he nodded and said in a strained voice, “Fine, just fine.”

“Right, so like I said, it seemed like a good place to put your art things when you move in, give you enough privacy, and it gets good light, which I know you like – really, Grantaire, are you sure you’re ok, because you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m fine,” Grantaire repeated, though he sounded anything but. “I just…when did we talk about moving in together?”

Enjolras looked surprised. “I…I guess we didn’t? I just assumed. We’ve been together for over a year now, I know your lease expires at the end of next month, and I just thought…”

Grantaire’s eyes looked suspiciously wet, and he coughed and ducked his head, avoiding Enjolras’s questioning gaze. “You just assumed, huh? Just assumed that I would jump at the chance to live with you, to take a really fucking big step together, without even asking me what I thought about it?”

Enjolras blinked, looking unsure. “Well, I…I suppose I’m asking now. Grantaire, will you move in with me? I love you and I want to take a really fucking big step together. If you’ve not ready, I understand, but—”

“No, I’m not ready!” Grantaire burst, his eyes flashing up to Enjolras’s. “I will  _never_  be ready! Not for that.” He paused, taking a deep breath, and when he spoke next, his voice was a flat monotone that rang with finality. “I can’t move in with you.”

Enjolras just stared at him, completely at a loss for where he had gone wrong, for how badly he had somehow misread what was going on between them. “Why…why not?”

Grantaire took another deep breath, his eyes dropping to stare determinedly at the price tag for the coffee table, his fingers tightening in their grip against the couch. “I can’t move in with you because you’re going to realize sooner rather than later that you’re not in love with me, not really. And I…I’ve made my peace with that, that you’ll never love me the way I love you. But to watch you try, to watch you struggle with dealing with me 24/7, not just a few hours every day when you have the time to fit me into your life…I can’t do that. It’s not fair to you. It’s not fair to me.”

“Grantaire, what the fuck are you talking about?” asked Enjolras, looking completely blindsided and bewildered. “Of course I love you! What the hell do you think the last year between us has been?”

Something close to a wistful smile crossed Grantaire’s face. “It’s been something like a dream,” he said honestly. “But a dream isn’t meant to last.”

Enjolras knelt down in front of Grantaire and took his hand, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Grantaire, I seriously don’t understand where this is coming from. This  _isn’t_  a dream. I love you. Really, truly, honestly. And I can’t envision spending the rest of my life without you in it.”

“No.” Grantaire’s voice was quiet but firm. “No, Enjolras, you love the version of me that you allow yourself to love, to be with for those few hours a day. You don’t deal with me on a permanent basis. You don’t know what I’m really like.”

“Then let me try.” Enjolras’s voice was quiet as well, but heated. “Give me a chance. Let me prove how much I love you. Let me try. Please.”

Grantaire shook his head, pulling his hand away from Enjolras’s as he stood. “You may be willing to try. I’m not.” His fingertips brushed gently across Enjolras’s cheek as he passed him. “I love you,” he told him, truthfully. “I just don’t think you love me enough for this.”

Enjolras rocked back on his heels and watched him go, watched him walk away, wondering how in the world he had fucked up so badly, and how to even begin to try and fix this.


	2. E/R: Enjolras anxiety attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obvious TW for anxiety and panic attacks.
> 
> All of Enjolras's views of medication are his and his alone.

On Enjolras’s bad days, on those days when he was stressed, when he had eighteen different things to do for Les Amis, let alone all the things he was supposed to be doing for school, his default answer when asked how he was doing was always the same: “I’m fine.”

It was always the same way, terse and clearly anything but fine, but in such a tone that none would dare question him again, would leave him alone to the million things that weighed on his mind.

Today was a bad day.

Actually, it was worse than a bad day. It started with Enjolras waking up early in the morning, long before even his obscenely early alarm went off. He awoke in a damp sweat, feeling his heart pounding in his ears, literally gasping for breath.

Panic attack, the small, rational part of brain that was only vaguely functioning managed to provide. Should only last ten minutes.

It wasn’t that he had panic attacks often - though of course, what qualified as often? - but he had had them enough to know the symptoms and to know how long they normally lasted. He also knew that there was nothing he could do except wait it out.

Yes, there were drugs he could take, doctors he could see, and he had done that, once upon a time, when he had his first panic attack back in high school. His parents had insisted he see someone, and he had, and had been prescribed the usual drugs - an anti-anxiety medication coupled with an antidepressant - but he had take the anti-anxiety pill once and never would again. It fogged his mind, and if Enjolras had only one quality in his favor (ignoring the hundreds of other qualities he had in his favor), it was the sharpness of his mind. Taking the pills was a luxury - if one could call it that - that he could simply not afford.

And since he rarely had recurring episodes, only every few months, if even, he put the issue to the back of his mind.

But as the minutes stretched onward and the feeling like a weight on his chest did not recede, Enjolras felt his fingers involuntary curl against his bedsheets. He felt torn between bolting from his bed, running from his apartment, driving until he could drive no more, or else curling in on himself and lying in bed for the rest of the day trying desperately to hold himself together at the seams instead of falling apart the way that he so desperately wanted to.

He couldn’t do either. He had school. He had responsibilities. He did not have time for this, for the weakness or whatever one wanted to call it, time to waste on invisible demons that clawed their way into him at the most inconvenient times.

So instead, he rolled out of bed when his alarm went off, managed to shower without passing out, ignored the sheen of sweat that slicked his skin, his pulse that beat far too fast and far too close to the surface, his breathing that was only on this side of hyperventilation.

He made it through his first class without much issue, but in his second class, international political economy, which he shared with Combeferre, he had to leave halfway through to lock himself in the bathroom for ten minutes and try and calm the panic that had welled in his veins, willing it to subside, to recede, even if just temporarily.

When he finally stumbled back into class, far too pale, eyes too wide, fingers tapping restlessly against his desk, Combeferre gave him an odd look but thankfully did not say anything.

At least, not until after class, when Combeferre asked him quietly, “Enjolras, are you alright?”

Enjolras gritted his teeth and just barely refrained from snapping at him. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” Combeferre’s voice was blunt, a fact Enjolras normally valued though not today, not now. “In fact, you look really sick. I’m going to text Joly, ask him to come look at you—”

“Damnit Ferre, I said I was fucking fine!” Enjolras snarled, his headache building to blinding levels as he grabbed his stuff and practically ran from the room.

He paid no attention to where he was going, which was why it was perhaps unsurprising that his feet on autopilot led him straight to the Musain, where he grabbed one of the booths in back, knowing one of the baristas would bring him coffee. His heart felt less like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest, but at this rate, it was only a matter of time until it started again.

Groaning, he dropped his head into his hands, only to jerk up when he heard someone slide into the booth across from him, expecting Combeferre to have followed him.

To his surprise, it was Grantaire.

It took a long moment for him to remember that Grantaire was also in his class (“a fluke in scheduling”, Grantaire had called it, while Enjolras had just scoffed that he never expected to see Grantaire in class, so it hardly mattered). “Grantaire,” Enjolras hissed through gritted teeth. “Now is really not a good time.”

“No?” asked Grantaire lightly. “Odd, because I thought now was the perfect time. I can help.”

Enjolras forced his eyes to meet Grantaire’s. “You, help me? Be serious.”

Grantaire did not look away, though his expression softened. “Yeah. Me. Believe it or not, Enj, I know exactly what you’re going through right now, and—”

“You have no idea what I’m going through,” Enjolras snapped. “You have absolutely no clue what’s going on with me today, or any day, so why don’t you just—”

Grantaire cut him off by pulling a pill bottle out of his pocket and almost slamming it down on the table. “I don’t know what you’re going through?” he repeated, something glinting in his eyes. “Try again, Apollo, because there’s a reason I carry these around, and contrary to popular belief, it’s not because I’m a useless drug addict.”

Enjolras wanted nothing more than to turn away, to yell, to leave and run away from this, from the look in Grantaire’s eyes, from the thousands of thoughts and feelings that had created a tempest in his own mind, but instead he forced himself to take a deep breath and ask, “What’s that?”

“Klonopin. It’s—”

“It’s a tranquilizer. I know.”

Enjolras’s words were curt, and Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a benzodiazepine specifically prescribed by my doctor to alleviate symptoms of anxiety and panic attacks. You know the symptoms I’m referring to - racing heart beat, uncontrollable paranoia, shortness of breath, the overwhelming feeling that you’re going to die…”

Flushing slightly, Enjolras looked away. “I know the symptoms,” he said in a low voice, trying to ignore the vice-like feeling that was currently trying to grip his heart. “And I know what Klonopin is, and what it does. I also know all the side-effects, which is exactly why I don’t…why I can’t…”

“But you can.” Grantaire’s voice was quiet, but firm. “Are a few side effects really not worth risking for you to not have to spend a day like you have today, completely crippled, trying to fight what demons there are inside your brain? Because I’ve been there, Enj, and let me tell you, it’s worth risking.” He paused, but Enjolras was silent. Grantaire sighed. “The way I see it, you have three choices,” he said, pleasantly, as if they were discussing anything but the topic at hand. “You can take one of these—” he slid the pill bottle across the table to Enjolras “—you can drink about ten of these—” a beer bottle joined the pill bottle “or you can talk. To me. Tell me what’s going. Get it off your chest. Maybe get it out of your mind, if such a thing is possible. And I will listen - just listen.” He spread his hands. “Your choice.”

Enjolras raised his eyes to Grantaire’s, startled to see the warmth there, the kindness, the honest-to-goodness caring written all over Grantaire’s face, something that was at once both fully Grantaire and fully foreign to him. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “How much time do you have?” he asked, laughing shakily.

Grantaire half smiled, settling back in his chair. “For you? All the time in the world. Anytime you need it.”


	3. R - Barely hurt look on his face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it Modern? Is it Canon? The world will actually never know.

All his life, Grantaire has been taught to put on a brave face. He learned a long time ago that tears didn’t solve anything, barely even served to make himself feel better.

No, it was far better, far easier, to harden himself to it from the beginning, to not let it bother him in the first place. So he spent time carefully constructing his mask, to not let it slip regardless of the words hurled at him (luckily, his father gave him plenty of practice, and then his art instructors, when they would look at his latest works and sigh and shake their heads, or else when he was laughed at and teased and called ugly as he was through his entire childhood until the word seemed written on his soul).

It was no different with Enjolras.

Normally Enjolras’s attitude toward Grantaire hovered somewhere between indifference and derision, but every now and then, when Enjolras deemed him particularly worthless that night, when the bottles before him numbered more than usual, when his voice rang out louder and fouler than normal, or when he sniggered at an inappropriate place during Enjolras’s big speech, then the look on Enjolras’s face hardened.

His eyes would narrow, his lips would purse, and his tongue, normally reserved for painting visions of a future that almost made Grantaire into a believer, would turn to lashing him, to reminding him of just how useless and worthless Grantaire was, how little he mattered to the revolution (how very little, if at all, he mattered to Enjolras).

All the while, as Enjolras derided him in front of everyone, Grantaire would sit there, silent, and take every word Enjolras threw at him without question or complaint. His eyes were calm, if hard, his lips twisted into a grimace masquerading as a half-smile, the kind of look that acknowledged every word Enjolras yelled at him as completely true.

“Of course,” the look said, in volumes that did not speak, “of course, Enjolras, I am useless, you are correct. I know this, I’ve always known this, but carry on if it makes you feel better about it. I’ll be fine. I always am.”

Every now and again the yelling would get to the point where Grantaire deemed it more prudent to take his leave, to grab his bottle and give Enjolras a mocking half-bow before slipping out (before his carefully constructed mask could slip off his face), but mostly he would sit there in silence and take it.

He would take anything from Enjolras that he could, any word that Enjolras would give to him, regardless of how each and every one of them broke another piece of his heart.

(And once, only once, Enjolras came into the Musain early one day to spot Grantaire laughing in the corner with Jehan, genuine smile on his face, bottle untouched in front of him, until he caught sight of Enjolras and the laugh instantly stopped, the smile instantly slid into something infinitely more guarded, and for just that brief moment, Enjolras wondered why it was that Grantaire never smiled at him like that, never laughed with him like that.)


	4. E/R: Ugly Grantaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon era.

One of the men at the bar jostled Grantaire, unnecessarily rough to the point of being purposeful, and when Grantaire turned to look at him, the man guffawed and clapped his friend on the back. “Didn’t mean to run into you, ugly,” he snorted, leering at Grantaire in a way that made his friends laugh.

His companions’ laughter only seemed to drive him further, and the man continued commenting on Grantaire’s appearance. “It’s a rare spectacle to see so much ugly in one place. The mismatched eyes are one thing, but with that nose, and that skin…” He trailed off, grinning, allowing his friends’ laughter to bolster his cruel words.

Grantaire did not shrink under their laughter, clearly aimed at him. Instead, he hoisted his drink in a toast, smiling broadly at them. “Ugly though I may be, on the morrow, you shall still sadly be yourself, and I know which of the two I prefer.” He toasted the man and drank heavily from his cup before slamming it on the bar.

The men still laughed, but it was a different laugh this time, more genial, and they turned back to their own conversation without making further comment about Grantaire’s appearance.

Enjolras had been watching the whole exchange from nearby, and while his brow had furrowed at the first of the man’s insults, it had sunk into a glower at Grantaire’s reply, and when Grantaire slid gracefully off of his stool — gracefully, at least, for the quantity of drink he had imbibed — Enjolras caught his arm and pulled him away. “What was that about?” he asked abruptly, trying not to let Grantaire see how he seethed.

“What was  _what_  about?” Grantaire asked, pulling his arm out of Enjolras’s grasp. “The men were jesting.”

Shaking his head, Enjolras said with a touch of impatience, “You let them mock you, did nothing to refute what they said.”

Something tightened in Grantaire’s face, but he still managed a laugh, though it was edged in bitterness. “What they said was the truth. There is little enough point in arguing against lies; why expend the effort to become incensed over what any man can plainly see?”

“You mean you believed what they said?” Enjolras’s voice had quieted, its edge dulled by the realization.

Grantaire laughed again, his laugh still full of bitter mockery aimed at himself. “Whyever should I not? I am reminded of my own existence day upon day; why not let strangers remind me of it as well? Grantaire is ugly, they say — my looking glass tells me as much, the twist on pretty grisettes’ faces when beholding me tells me as much. Grantaire is a drunk, they say — surely I am, for how else should I seek to exist, to not be reminded constantly of all my shortcomings? Grantaire is useless, they say —”

“You are not useless.” Enjolras’s voice was quiet but sharp, cutting across Grantaire’s words.

Now Grantaire smiled at him, his eyes dark, and he leaned in close to say for Enjolras’s ears alone, “Ah, but you, dear Enjolras, are the one who reminds me most often just how useless I am.”

Then he was gone, pushing past Enjolras and out onto the street, heading assumedly in the direction of his lodging. Enjolras just stood rooted to his spot, completely at a loss of what to say or do to fix what he had already said and done.


	5. Joly/Jehan - Afraid to make the first move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Switching it up with the pairing!

It started with a late night at the Musain, Joly studying for an exam the next day, Jehan trying to sort the next chapter of his dissertation. Slowly the rest of the Amis filtered out, until it was just Jehan and Joly, the only sound the slow scratches of Joly’s pen as he marked something on his notes, and the rhythmic clacking of the keys on Jehan’s laptop. 

Jehan looked up and blinked at the clock. “Shit, is that the time?” he asked, his voice scratchy from disuse. “We should go back to our apartments. It’s getting late.”

Joly didn’t even look up from his textbook, waving a dismissive hand. “You go. I’ll be fine. I’ve got to memorize this section still.”

After a moment of hesitation, Jehan nodded, closing his laptop and shoving it into his bag. “Alright, but make sure that you get home and sleep at some point.”

On his way out, he paused next to Joly, resting a hand on Joly’s shoulder. After a long moment, Joly looked up at him and smiled. “I will,” he promised. “Once I finish this section.”

It became a routine, Joly and Jehan staying at the Musain long after even Enjolras left (long after Grantaire trailed out after him, except on days when their fight was particularly bad, in which case Grantaire was either passed out in the corner or had long since left). Every night would end in much the same way, either Jehan or Joly stretching and wishing the other one a goodnight, stopping to touch the other in a friendly gesture before leaving.

And every night, the one left behind would stare after the other’s retreating back until he was gone before huffing a sigh and turning back around.

One night, Joly stood, smiling at Jehan. “Well, I’m off,” he said, grabbing his bag.

To his surprise, Jehan nodded, closing his book. “Yeah, I should go home, too.” He looked at Joly, bit his lip, and asked quietly, “Walk me home?”

Joly found himself nodding, found himself offering his arm to Jehan, who laughed and took it, and they walked together. Their conversation was light, easy, untroubled, sharing the quiet companionship they had shared for all those evenings.

When they got to Jehan’s apartment, Jehan slowly let go of Joly’s arm. “Right. Well. This is me.” He looked down at the ground, shoving his hands in his coat pocket as he tried to find the words he was looking for. Then he looked up and smiled slightly. “See you tomorrow?”

Joly swallowed, wanting desperately to tell Jehan that the streetlight had turned his hair to the most ethereal shade of silver, that he had a smudge of ink on his cheek that Joly wanted to kiss off of it, that he loved the time they spent together more than anything else in the world. Instead, he nodded. “Right. See you tomorrow.”

He watched Jehan climb up the steps to his apartment building, waiting until he was safely inside to turn and start walking back to him.

From inside his apartment building, Jehan watched him walk away, wishing he had found it in himself to tell Joly that instead of his dissertation, he found himself writing poem after poem dedicated to Joly, that he wanted to kiss that wrinkle of concentration Joly got in between his eyebrows, that he never wanted to spend another night without him.

And both of them thought to themselves,  _Maybe tomorrow night_.


	6. Courfeyrac/Jehan - Dancing to Overcome Melancholy

Courfeyrac hated autumn. 

He hated winter more, no doubt, but there was vitriolic loathing of autumn that seemed set in his very bones. It had a lot to do with the fact that Courfeyrac seemed to almost embody summer all the way to his core.

Courfeyrac evoked memories of a sun that seemed like it would never set, warmth, happiness, and freedom. Autumn brought none of those things, just cold, dreary drizzle and the slow death of everything vibrant in the world.

He was not alone in his dislike for fall: Jean Prouvaire, who, if Courfeyrac evoked summer, was in fact the living embodiment of springtime, also seemed to wilt come autumn. Which perhaps helped explain the draw between the two, spring clinging to summer and summer clinging to life.

On a particularly grey autumn morning in early October, when the sky was threatening with rain, Courfeyrac was huddled underneath his blanket, refusing the face the day. He felt Jehan’s hand run up his spine, and turned over into his arms. “Get up,” Jehan told him, kissing him lightly. “I have something I want to show you.”

"It’s a bad day," Courfeyrac informed him sullenly, using their established shorthand for days when the melancholy dragged them into its ready embrace.

Jehan cupped his cheek, his eyes, the same green as newly grown leaves, sparkling more than they had in weeks. “I know. And this will help.”

So Courfeyrac found himself being dragged along by Jehan until they were at the park, and then Jehan slowed to a walk, lacing his fingers tightly with Courfeyrac’s. Courfeyrac was just about to ask where they were going when they turned a corner and he stopped in tracks.

For there in front of them was an entire field of newly bloomed purple and pink flowers, and Courfeyrac gaped at the sight of such vibrant life this late in the year. Jehan grinned and kissed Courfeyrac’s cheek. “The colchicum bloomed. C’mon.”

And then he led Courfeyrac into the flowers, smiling as Courfeyrac bent to skim his fingers over the flowers. Then Courfeyrac was laughing, a brighter, more cheerful laugh than he laughed in days, pulling Jehan to him, twirling him through the flowers in an unrestrained dance.

Neither cared if any were watching as the two men danced in a field of autumn flowers. Then Courfeyrac pulled Jehan close, kissing him gently and resting his forehead against Jehan’s. “Thank you,” he murmured, his dark eyes bright.

"You’re welcome," Jehan told him. "Just, next time I need it, remind me as well."

Courfeyrac kissed the tip of his nose, laughing as Jehan’s nose scrunched up. “Remind you of what?”

"That there is always life," Jehan said simply. "And that nature always finds a way."


	7. Marius/Cosette - Angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-era.
> 
> Referenced canonical character death.

They were the perfect loving family, the Pontmercys, Monsieur and Madame and their two little children, one of whom looked just like his sweet maman, the other taking after her dear papa. Everyone in their neighborhood talking about how darling the children were, how absolutely wonderful Cosette was, and how likable and knowledgeable Monsieur Marius seemed.

"The perfect family," their neighbors would coo, watching as Cosette and Marius strolled around, arm-in-arm, their children following along obediently.

But no one knew - no one could ever know.

No one knew that Marius Pontmercy was haunted by more demons than could ever be explained, ghosts of his friends, the shade of his father, the unbearable hardship of being the only survivor of a dream gone to hell. It was enough to wear at even the most steadfast of men, and Marius, though many things, was not always the hardiest in this regard.

It started small, subtle even - Marius lost for a few moments in his own head, his normal smile sliding off of his freckled face, replaced by a look of such pain and loss that it hurt any who so much as saw it. In the beginning, it took no more than Cosette’s gentle hand on his arm or a whispered word from her to stir him from his reverie. 

But soon that was not enough, and soon his fits became longer and more frequent. He was prone to pacing, to staying up all hours of the night and pacing through their house as if the constant moving would somehow excise the demons that lingered in his head. Somedays he stayed in bed, not moving, wallowing in their presence and letting them swallow it whole.

His children, his darling, sweet children, learned to speak in soft voices around him, to ask their mother if papa was having a bad day before going into his bedchamber. Cosette’s face became lined with worry, her lips constantly pursed in fear and concern for her husband.

When he was in a good mood, there was no one as attentive and doting as Marius, and he would scoop his children up and smother them in kisses before whisking his still-beautiful bride away to their bedchamber. But the good moods became few and far-between.

And on occasion, when the bad days were particularly dour, he would disappear, sometimes for hours, sometimes even longer, and more than once Cosette had to go find him, find him in front of his father’s grave, or worse, the pauper’s grave where his companions lay buried, forever unmarked, forgotten to the bustling world around them. She would find him shaking, rocking back and forth, sometimes sobbing brokenly.

For a part of Marius Pontmercy had died on the barricades. And that part was sometimes far bigger than the part that remained. And Cosette, whose love should have been enough for him, enough to bring him back, enough to save him as it always had, found that on these days, not even her love could save him from the demons in his head and in his heart.


	8. Joly & R Friendship - R Cutting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings for self-harm, depression, and blood.**

When Joly’s phone rang in the middle of the night, he almost didn’t need to roll over and squint at the screen to know who was calling. There was only one person who called at this time of night, and always for the same reason.

As quietly as he could, he grabbed his phone and got out of bed, doing his best to not disturb Musichetta and Bossuet as he did so. When he was in the hallway, the bedroom door safely closed behind him, he answered his phone with a soft, “Hello?”

"Joly, it’s me. Please…"

Joly knew who it was. Joly knew what he needed.

And so, as he had done on more occasions than he wanted to think about, he grabbed his doctor’s bag, already full of what he would need, and tossed a hoodie on over his pajamas in order to drive over to Grantaire’s.

Grantaire was exactly where he knew he would be, slumped on the bathroom floor, razor at his side from where it’s fallen out of his hand, blood running freely down his arms. As always, Joly paused in the doorway to take a deep, steadying breath, to remind himself that for the next ten minutes, this was not his friend, this was not Grantaire. This was a patient, a patient who needed Dr. Joly’s help.

It made it easier that way, easier to kneel by Grantaire’s side, to check his pulse, to check his pupils for reaction time. It made it easier to examine the lacerations to ensure none of them needed stitches. It made it easier to clean up the blood, to wrap clean white bandages around Grantaire’s forearms.

It made it easier to ignore the layers of scars under the fresh cuts.

It made it easier to ignore Grantaire’s half-formed apologies and excuses. “Bad day,” he was saying, his eyes closed. “Shouldn’t have. Didn’t mean to.”

It didn’t matter what Grantaire said. He always said the same thing.

And Joly never spoke a word, knowing that the last thing Grantaire needed was a lecture.

This was their unspoken agreement. Joly was always on-call for Grantaire, provided he never judged him, never asked him to stop, never asked him  _why_.

And in return, on those days when Joly could not take it anymore, when every instinct in his body was screaming that he was dying, that there was something  _wrong_ , those days when it felt like his body and his mind were constantly at war, on those days Joly could find solace at Grantaire’s: a drink, if he needed it, silence when he wanted it, and most importantly of all, no questions, no judgment, just a gentle comforting presence to remind him without words that it was all in his head.

Instead, when he was done, rocked back on his heels as he wadded up the gauze and tossed it in the trash, he let Grantaire babble the promise he could never keep: “I’m sorry, Joly. It won’t happen again.”

They both knew he was lying.

Joly smiled at him, tightly, and squeezed his shoulder, the only gesture he knew Grantaire would allow, and then he stood, slowly. After a long moment, he bent down and picked up the razor blade, wordlessly stowing it in his doctor’s bag. Grantaire watched him silently.

There would always be other blades.

But the gesture was nonetheless symbolic, and as Joly left, he lingered in the doorway for a moment before turning back, his face softening, as he told Grantaire the only words that he knew Grantaire would allow. “When you’re going through hell…”

"Keep going," Grantaire finished, sighing heavily and forcing an approximation of a smile onto his face. "I’ll try."

It was all that Joly could ask for, and he left shortly thereafter. His doctor’s training told him that this couldn’t continue, that Grantaire was going to go too far one day, that the hell he imagined in his head at times like these would become permanent.

But his friend’s intuition knew that pushing Grantaire into treatment would make his worst nightmares a reality. 

The only thing he could do, the only thing he did, as often as he could, was to show Grantaire every moment they were together, just as Grantaire did when Joly’s hypochondriac fits flared up, that it was all in his head, that his friends, Les Amis, were all there for him. 

And for now, that had to be enough.


	9. E/R - Forceful Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a happy drabble. Whoops. I should make the next one happy to make up for two sads in a row.

It was a particularly bad night in the Musain.

It was a particularly bad night for Enjolras and Grantaire.

Which is to say that Grantaire had had a shit day and had taken it out on himself the only way that he knew how, downing most of a fifth of vodka because his liver wasn’t a vital organ and something he should be concerned about keeping around for years to come.

And Enjolras…well, Enjolras hadn’t been sleeping well, which was not so much an excuse as a warning to anyone within the vicinity, because Enjolras on little to no sleep was an absolute beast to have to deal with.

This meant that Enjolras and Grantaire were at each other’s throats for the better part of the evening, to the point where it had gone beyond uncomfortable for everyone watching, to the point where even Courfeyrac couldn’t make jokes about sexual tension.

Finally, Enjolras sat down in his chair, his glare cool and flat. “Everyone out,” he said, his tone final, eyes not leaving Grantaire’s. “Everyone but Grantaire.”

"Enjolras—" Combeferre started, but he trailed off when Enjolras looked at him. "Don’t do anything you’ll regret," he said instead, clapping Enjolras on the shoulder as he left.

Once they were alone, Enjolras stood, gripping the back of his chair with one hand as he continued to glare at Grantaire, who just smirked back at him. “I suppose you’re pleased with yourself,” Enjolras said, knowing he sounded disgusted, and not particularly caring.

Grantaire’s smirk widened into a lazy grin. “Immensely. To have gotten under your skin to the point of you sending everyone home…I can cross that off my bucket list.”

A muscle worked in Enjolras’s jaw and his eyes flashed dangerously. “Do you consider it your life mission to disagree with and dispute everything I say?” he asked, his voice almost cracking with barely contained fury as he crossed toward Grantaire. “Do you somehow get off on this, on me yelling at you?”

Something seemed to flicker in Grantaire’s eyes, and his grin turned almost wicked. “Maybe I do,” he said, lifting his chin defiantly, standing up as Enjolras approached. “Maybe that’s  _exactly_ what I get off on.”

Enjolras stopped a pace away from Grantaire, emotions flitting across his face as he processed what Grantaire was saying. “Grantaire—” he started, but then Grantaire had crossed to him, had closed the space between them, and had pressed a gentle, almost reverent kiss to Enjolras’s lips.

The kiss lasted for mere moments before Grantaire pulled away, too drunk to be terrified of Enjolras’s reaction the way he probably would have otherwise been. Enjolras, for his part, just stared at Grantaire, unsure of his own reaction to the kiss.

It wasn’t that Enjolras didn’t want to - hell, he had spent far more time than he would ever admit thinking about kissing Grantaire, about pinning him against the wall and kissing him so thoroughly that Grantaire wouldn’t know what hit him - but now? Like this? With half a bottle of vodka coursing through Grantaire’s veins and all possibility of consent clearly off the table?

That made Enjolras angry most of all, knowing that this could have been something, but knowing that their first kiss would forever be…this, this foolish, sloppy, drunken mistake. The anger seemed to burn through his body until he couldn’t take it anymore, and he pushed Grantaire away from him, shoved him against the wall, his forearm across Grantaire’s throat, pinning him in place.

Grantaire stared at him with wide eyes and Enjolras kissed him then, a fierce kiss full of fire and anger and something that walked the fine line between passion and hatred. He felt rather than heard Grantaire gasp against his lips, and didn’t care, ravaging him with his own, biting down on Grantaire’s lip until he tasted blood.

Then he pulled away, arm still holding Grantaire in place, almost laughing derisively at the way Grantaire’s eyes watched Enjolras’s lips. “Is this what you wanted?” Enjolras asked harshly, his breathing strained. “Is it?”

He didn’t know what answer he wanted from Grantaire, didn’t know what answer he  _needed_ , but as he looked at the muzzy confusion in Grantaire’s eyes, at his sluggish movements and pupils blown wide, Enjolras knew he was never going to get it.

So he dropped his arm from Grantaire’s throat, stepped backward away from him, crossing his arms in front of his chest in a physical attempt to hold in everything racing through his mind at the moment. “You should go,” he whispered, his voice hollow, his eyes glued to the floor.

"Enjolras—" Grantaire started, reaching out for him, hands dropping to his side when Enjolras flinched.

"I can’t do this now.  _You_  can’t do this now.” He raised his eyes to meet Grantaire’s, his full of the steel and conviction that Grantaire’s always lacked. “Go. Please.”

Grantaire swallowed hard and nodded, once, shuffling toward the door. He looked over his shoulder just once, and said hoarsely, “I’m sorry. For…whatever.”

Then he was gone, and Enjolras all but collapsed into a chair, burying his head in his hands, because for once, Grantaire wasn’t the one who should have been apologizing. And it was too late for Enjolras to do anything about it.


	10. Enjolras and Envy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight E/R because of course.

Enjolras was not lonely, for how could he be? Day and night he surrounded himself with his friends, with casual acquaintances, with those he sought to persuade to their cause. There was bond enough that grew out of fraternity, and even moreso when such fraternity was built on shared sedition.

But for all his friends and acquaintances, for all those who seemed a constant presence, he had not companionship the way most of their number did.

He was a flame, and a flame would always draw moths to its light, but moths could not land for fear of burning.

Such an imperfect metaphor. He wondered if he had been spending too much time with Combeferre of late.

Here, now, he was alone in the back room of the Musain late at night, hunched over his work, a fire in the corner his only source of warmth, and he was not lonely, truly.

He just wondered what it must be like, to have such companionship as the men who should be here with him but instead found themselves in their own beds, with their mistresses or however they found their comfort.

He had never desired a mistress, never sought his comfort in any other living soul. He had not the time, he had not the patience to pursue such things. The work of the Revolution must always come first, and he knew this.

But still, on some days, when trudging home in the early hours of the morning, the still, cold light of the moon as his only companion, he wondered what it must be like to find his bed warmed by another. 

What was worse was that it would be so easy to find out, to ask another to join him. The pretty gamine who cast him furtive looks when she thought he could not see would come willingly enough, he assumed, or perhaps closer to home: would Combeferre refuse, should Enjolras ask it of him? Would any of their number refuse such a request from him?

Would any come willingly without him asking at all? Would any fly so closely to the flame?

The answer to that was unmistakably yes, and Enjolras flushed unbidden at the thought, at sly blue eyes and wicked red lips pursed around the mouth of a bottle, of dark curls that flecked red in the sunlight and glowed silver in the moonlight, at arms so strong, strong enough to hold him, to—

No.

This was indulgence enough, thinking this way, and he would not allow himself to continue down this path, to haunt himself with dreams that could not be — with dreams he would never allow to be.

Instead, he stood, pulled on his jacket with fingers that only shook slightly, and gathered his papers before striking out home, to the bed that awaited him, cold and empty as ever.


	11. E/R - Enjolras's Lips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Briefest of NSFW moments towards the end.

Grantaire was in love with Enjolras’s voice. He once told Jehan that he could listen to nothing else for the rest of his life and die a very happy man. Enjolras’s voice was melodic, an orchestra contained in a single person, rising and falling from the piccolo to the doublebass, sliding smoothly like a trombone or quivering like a bow over violin strings.

There was more beauty contained in that voice that Enjolras’s entire being (and to be honest, there was  _a lot_  of beauty in Enjolras’s entire being).

It was why Grantaire had no qualms sitting in the back of the Musain, perching in the dimly lit corners. Though he admired Enjolras’s beauty, he cared far more for the beauty of Enjolras’s voice, and he did not need good lighting to hear that.

One day, though, Grantaire’s usual seat was taken, and he found himself sitting uncomfortably close to the front of the room, uncomfortably close to Enjolras. This meant he couldn’t partake in his normal ritual of closing his eyes and letting Enjolras’s voice wash over him until the drink in his hands and in his blood forced him to interject. He had to stay alert.

So it was with ready - albeit wary - eyes that he watched Enjolras stand in front of the room. And then he began speaking, and Grantaire was more lost than ever he had been.

The words were noiseless, brushing past his ears without making any impact, because while Grantaire had thought Enjolras’s words were beautiful, he had failed to notice Enjolras’s lips.

They were just on this side of plump, prettily so, a lovely flushed shade, the bottom lip thicker than the top. And as he spoke, as they moved, Grantaire was transfixed, watching as they formed words, pursed in concentration when listening, curled into a smile or tightened into a grimace.

Before, he had wanted to write a symphony of Enjolras’s voice; now, he wanted to paint the essence of Enjolras’s lips.

Never again did he sit in the back of the room, in the dark; now, he chose the spot with the best vantage point, to watch with hooded eyes and baited breath as Enjolras’s lips moved.

In another life, he might have wondered what those lips would feel like against his own, what they would look like parted and panting, what they would look like wrapped around his cock. And some nights he took his indulgence imagining just that. For the most part, though, he was happy just to watch, happy for the occasional smile - and far more frequent frown - that Enjolras deigned to throw his way.


	12. Combeferre/Courfeyrac, E/R - Delicious Flavor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter is NSFW.**

“What if penises had flavors?” Courfeyrac asked in lieu of a greeting as he sat down next to Combeferre at the club, shouting over the thumping bass.

Combeferre raised an eyebrow at him. “Well,” he said, trying not to pay attention to the way Courfeyrac’s lips moved around the beer bottle that he had just plucked for Combeferre’s hand to take a swig from, “they do make flavored condoms and lube, assumedly for that reason.”

Courfeyrac returned his raised eyebrow, and handed his beer bottle back before grabbing his martini glass and draining it. “I like appletinis. It’s my first time ever having them, and they’re  _delicious_ ,” he told Combeferre. Then, after a long moment of examining Combeferre carefully, Courfeyrac leaned in and asked, “Would you let me put appletini on your dick?”

Combeferre, who had just taken a sip of his returned beer, promptly choked on it and went scarlet. “I…what?” he spluttered.

“Would you,” Courfeyrac said, voice serious, hand sliding up Combeferre’s thigh, “let me” — his hand had reached a quite indecent location, but Combeferre was not about to tell him to stop now — “put appletini on your dick?”

Combeferre’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, hard, trying to form words. “Um,” he said, particularly articulate. “I don’t know if that would be…sanitary?”

Courfeyrac leaned in to suck languidly on Combeferre’s earlobe, and Combeferre gave up on ever being able to breathe properly again. “But I would suck it off so nicely…” Courfeyrac whispered, his breath warm against Combeferre’s ear, and Combeferre closed his eyes, hands gripping the table.

Just then, from across the club, so loudly that Combeferre and Courfeyrac could hear him even above the music, Grantaire shouted, “Ha! I win! Enjolras said I can suck whiskey off of his dick!”

“Oh, god _damn_ it,” Courfeyrac swore, scooting away from Combeferre and pouting. “I was so  _sure_  you’d give in before Enjolras would.” Combeferre wasn’t quite capable of speaking yet, but the look he gave Courfeyrac spoke volumes. “Oh. Sorry,” Courfeyrac said, not sounding sorry at all.

Combeferre cleared his throat. “What do you have to give Grantaire for losing?” he managed.

“A bottle of whiskey. For…obvious reasons.”

Though Combeferre nodded, his expression was still pained, and Courfeyrac laughed and patted his thigh. “If you want, I can still suck appletini off of your dick.”

Combeferre carefully crossed his legs and told Courfeyrac shortly, “No, thanks. I’d rather you didn’t.”

A few days later, Courfeyrac woke up to find a bottle of green apple flavored lube and green apple flavored condoms on his nightstand, and couldn’t help but grin.


	13. E/R - Morning Kiss

"Wake up, sleepyhead." Grantaire’s voice permeated Enjolras’s conscience like a dream, and on any other day, it would be a good dream. Today, though, it was anything but, and Enjolras rolled over, burying his face in his pillow.

"Go away," he groaned, his voice muffled against the pillow. "Let me sleep."

He could feel the bed sag as Grantaire sat down, felt Grantaire run his hand up Enjolras’s thigh and knew what was coming, biting down on his lip as Grantaire tickled the side of his stomach. “Come on,” Grantaire teased, grinning as Enjolras squirmed helplessly as he tickled him. “You were the one who told me not to let you sleep in today, that you had work to do and that it was all my fault because I kept you up so late last night.”

Enjolras rolled over, opening one eye to glare blearily at Grantaire. “It  _is_  your fault,” he told him. “If it weren’t for you, I would have been in bed on time last night.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “Fine,” he said coolly, shifting to the end of the bed. “The next time you wake up in the middle of the night with a raging hard-on, I won’t wake up to help you take care of it. If you value your sleep that much.”

Pouting, Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s pillow and flung it at him, even as Grantaire laughed and batted it away. “That’s not what I meant,” he complained, lying back against his own pillow and closing his eyes. “You suck.”

"Well, yes, but only when you want me to," Grantaire said innocently, climbing up the bed to stretch out next to Enjolras, wrapping an arm around his waist and pressing a kiss first to his forehead, then to his temple, then to each of his eyelids. "But you need to open those beautiful blue eyes and face the world. Or you won’t have time for me to be doing any sucking any time soon."

Enjolras groaned again but opened his eyes enough so that he could reach up and capture Grantaire’s mouth with his own. “I hate when you’re the voice of reason,” he complained, pulling himself into a sitting position.

"I know, it’s weird, isn’t it?" Grantaire said agreeably, kissing the top of Enjolras’s head as he stood. "But nonetheless, you’re the one with the freakish schedule, not me, so if you want to make sure we can still schedule some alone time tonight…"

Enjolras allowed himself to be pulled out of bed, wrapping his arms around Grantaire’s neck and kissing him once more. “You know, sex is a great motivator,” he said conversationally as he headed toward the bathroom. “I don’t know what I did before you.”

"Before me you lived with Combeferre, so trust me, I don’t want to know what you did before me either," Grantaire snickered, laughing loudly as Enjolras glared at him before slamming the bathroom door.


	14. E/R - Break up

The number of times they had screamed “I’m done!” at the other before walking away or slamming the door might lead one to believe that was how their relationship would end — with screaming, with fighting, with anger.

But sometimes…sometimes love just ends. Not with a fight, because if there’s a fight, then there’s something worth fighting for and over.

Instead, it ended with Enjolras sitting across from Grantaire at the kitchen table — at  _their_  kitchen table, the table that they ate at, fought at, had made love on before on many separate occasions — and telling him in a quiet voice, “I’m can’t do this anymore.”

Sometimes people break up for a reason, because their lover cheated or because they couldn’t handle being with the person any longer. But sometimes…sometimes what had once been there just wasn’t there anymore. And instead of kissing and cuddling and having sex because of love, the kisses and the cuddles and the sex were out of obligation. And the whispered, “I love you” in the morning before going to work and at night before going to bed was just hollow words repeated out of habit.

And even if it broke Enjolras’s heart, and it did, he knew Grantaire deserved more than that.

So he said, “I’m sorry”, because he was.

And Grantaire said, “I know”, because he did.

People love to talk about how wonderful it feels to fall in love.

They don’t talk about how it feels to fall out of love.

Maybe they’ll stay friends. Maybe one day they’ll stop blaming themselves. Maybe one day they’ll fall in love again with someone else and realize that’s how love is supposed to feel. Maybe.

But then again, maybe they won’t.


	15. E/R - Mer!jolras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Major Character Death.** And, you know, merpeople. So there's that.

Grantaire stared moodily down at the water, one hand wrapped loosely around the wooden beam to keep himself from falling in the water. It had been far too long since he had seen the fair vision of the beautiful, blond-haired merman, the vision that haunted his dreams, that became a waking nightmare. 

He had only seen the merman once, had only heard the sweet song that he sang a single time, but it was enough to drive Grantaire mad, to make him abandon everything he had ever held dear (which, to be fair, was not much; Grantaire’s only consistent relationship was with alcohol, but even his grog held no interest to him now).

His crewmates were worried, and he knew that in some dark part of his mind, but it did not matter to him now. Nothing mattered besides seeing that fair face one more time, hearing that sweet, sweet voice once more.

He blinked and there -  _there_  - he saw blond curls amongst the blue waves, and without thinking, Grantaire relinquished his hold on the ship and crashed readily into the sea.

Every instinct in his body told him to swim toward the light but his heart told him to swim down into the darkness and he did, striking out toward where he had seen the merman.

And then suddenly - there he was, his blond hair billowing around his head, his blue eyes locked on Grantaire’s, his red fish tail cutting powerful strokes through the water. Grantaire thought he might have gone to heaven just seeing that pale skin again, just meeting those blue eyes.

The merman swam to meet him, reaching out with his strong, muscular arms to wrap one around Grantaire’s waist, holding him still in the water. "You shouldn’t have come," the merman told him sadly, stroking his cheek with one green-tinged finger, his blue eyes even more piercing underwater than above, and Grantaire’s mouth went slack, because how could he  _not_  have come, how could he not have followed this beautiful creature?

As if the merman could sense his thought, he kissed him, pulling him close and pressing his red, red lips against Grantaire’s rapidly bluing ones. Grantaire closed his eyes, trying to weave his fingers into the merman’s hair, though it was as elusive as seaweed. “I love you,” Grantaire tried to tell him, his lips moving against the merman’s without any sound coming out.

Still, the merman seemed to understand, and he kissed Grantaire again, softer and gentler this time. “You shouldn’t have come,” he repeated, his hands on both sides of Grantaire’s face.

Then he released Grantaire from his grip, and Grantaire realized for the first time how far underwater he was. He struggled, trying to swim back to the blond merman with the angelic face, his lungs screaming for oxygen as surely as his heart screamed for the merman, who was still regarding him sadly.

It was over sooner than Grantaire would ever realize, and he abruptly stopped struggling. The last thing he saw before blackness overtook him was the merman raising a trembling hand to his lips. 

Enjolras watched the body float towards the surface, his heart broken just as it always was when these things happened. “You shouldn’t have come,” he whispered for the last time, a tone of resigned finality in his voice. Then he turned and swam toward his brethren, leaving the body floating alone in the ocean.


	16. E/R - Showering

"How the hell do you shower like this?" Grantaire complained, his voice breaking through Enjolras’s reverie and he shook his head under the jets of the shower, coming back to wakefulness. "I can’t even  _breathe_ , it’s so goddamn hot in here.”

Enjolras poked his head around the shower curtain to glare at Grantaire, who was leaning against the bathroom counter and smiling at him. “You don’t have to be in here,” Enjolras told him. “In fact, I believe it’s considered polite to  _not_ be in the bathroom while another person is showering.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Who needs politeness when I’m bringing you coffee?”

Eyes lighting up, Enjolras stuck one hand out from around the shower curtain and made a grabbing gesture. “Coffee, please!” he pleaded, his tired eyes looking pleadingly at Grantaire.

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Grantaire said with a chuckle, bringing the coffee over to him and shaking his head when Enjolras drank it so quickly that it spilled down his chin. "Jesus, look at you. You’re getting coffee everywhere."

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras muttered, “Good thing I’m in the shower, then.” He looked at Grantaire with a critical eye, and then carefully poured a bit of coffee down Grantaire’s front.

"The fuck, Enj?" Grantaire yelped, snatching the coffee mug back from him and setting it on the counter.

"Oops," Enjolras said, grinning wickedly. "Looks like you’ll just have to join me in the shower."

Grantaire rolled his eyes and hit a smile. “You are a terrible human being,” he informed Enjolras, tugging his shirt off, his pants quickly following suit and stepping into the shower, almost yelping when he felt the temperature of the water. “For fuck’s sake, are you  _trying_  to scald your skin off?”

Enjolras just laughed and pinned him against the shower wall, kissing him hungrily. “Stop being such a baby,” he said, bending to lick some of the coffee up from Grantaire’s chest. “Unless if you’d rather get out.”

Grantaire’s eyes darkened and he kissed Enjolras back. “Not a damn chance.”

By the time they both got out of the shower, there was no steam left in the bathroom.


	17. Courfeyrac/Jehan - Falling Out of Love

Courfeyrac rolled over and pressed a kiss to Jehan’s bare shoulder, smiling when the poet stirred, blinking his eyes blearily. “Good morning, beautiful,” Courfeyrac whispered, his dark eyes shining as he looked at Jehan.

Once upon a time, Jehan would have smiled back, his green eyes lighting up as he rolled into Courfeyrac’s embrace, letting Courf kiss up his neck to his lips, and they would have wiled the morning away in each other’s arms, kissing and touching and making love. Once upon a time Jehan would have initiated this just as often as Courfeyrac, waking up purposefully early so he could watch the way the sun brought out the red tones in Courfeyrac’s curls.

Once upon a time he would have pouted had Courfeyrac not woken him up this way, kisses as numerous as Jehan’s freckles.

Once upon a time he was happiest here in Courfeyrac’s arms.

Now, he sighed and rolled onto his other side, facing his back to Courfeyrac. “I’m tired,” he said in a faint voice, burrowing his face back into his pillow. “I’m gonna go back to sleep.

Courfeyrac traced his fingers up Jehan’s spine and leaned over to press a kiss to his temple. “Alright, love. Sleep as much as you need. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Jehan screwed his eyes shut as Courfeyrac stood and padded out the door of their bedroom, not wanting to see the loving, understanding look that Courfeyrac gave him. Because Courf did understand, was so very patient with him, assuming that this was just one of Jehan’s melancholic moods.

It would be better if Courfeyrac didn’t understand, if Jehan’s more and more frequent silences hurt him, if he realized that they hadn’t had sex in days. It would be better if Courfeyrac got angry, yelled at him, told him that this wasn’t worth it to him, that he had tried and Jehan had just pushed him away.

But of course, Courfeyrac would never do that. He loved Jehan.

Jehan just wished he still loved Courfeyrac.


	18. E/R - Kiss in the Rain

It had been a remarkably well-conceived plan. Enjolras had stood up from his meeting with Combeferre and Courfeyrac and announced, “I’m going to tell Grantaire how I feel about him.”

"What?" Courfeyrac exclaimed, while Combeferre pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, "How?"

"I’ll go to his place and I’ll throw rocks at his window until he comes down and I’ll tell him." Enjolras was proud of this plan, finding no faults in it whatsoever.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchanged glances before asking in unison, “When?”

That answer had been ‘now’, and Enjolras had trooped over to Grantaire’s apartment, thrown his rocks, and bellowed for Grantaire to come down.

And then was the fault in his plan revealed: Grantaire wasn’t home.

Or at least, wasn’t answering his door.

So Enjolras had spent the last twenty minutes or so bellowing up at Grantaire’s apartment, saying everything he wanted to, hoping in some irrational part of his head (and his heart), that maybe Grantaire would come home and see him or hear him. At the very least, one of his neighbors might hear him and tell Grantaire. Because if Enjolras didn’t say all this now, he didn’t know when he would be able to work up the idiocy to do it again.

But then, of course, because Enjolras’s life at the moment didn’t suck enough, he felt what could only be a raindrop on his head. And then another. And a third, followed by a pitter-patter of several raindrops.

Because of course it would rain while Enjolras was standing outside of Grantaire’s vacant apartment trying to confess his love to him.

"Are. You.  _Fucking_. Kidding. Me?!” Enjolras seethed, glaring up at the sky as if personally  challenging it to come at him. The sole response was a rumble of amused thunder before the skies opened up and it started pouring.

He heard what sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh and looked up to see Grantaire looking down at him from his window. Enjolras stared at him for a long moment before shouting, “How long have you been there?”

Grantaire shrugged, grinning. “The whole time.”

Enjolras glared at him and turned away, muttering angrily to himself as he shoved his hands as far as he could into his pockets (because goddamnit skinny jeans were not meant to get wet). He had just started walking away when he heard the door to Grantaire’s apartment building open, heard Grantaire shout, “Hey, wait!” and turned to find Grantaire running towards him, green hoodie tugged on over boxer shorts, no shoes on his feet. “Wait,” Grantaire panted when he came to a halt next to him. “Didn’t you have something you wanted to tell me?”

"I did," Enjolras snapped, justifiably waspish at having yelled at Grantaire’s window for the past half hour with no response while the man in question had apparently been inside the entire time. "I don’t know that I still do."

Though he started to turn away again, Grantaire reached out and grabbed his arm. “Enj,” he said, softly, something in his voice almost husky, and then before Enjolras knew what was happening, Grantaire had leaned in and kissed him.

It was stupider than every horrible rom-com cliche that Enjolras could think of, but with Grantaire there, kissing him gently, licking his way into Enjolras’s mouth as if he had always been there, Enjolras could not have cared less, putting his arms around Grantaire and pulling him even closer.

When they finally broke apart, Grantaire laughed, kissing him again just for a second before telling Enjolras breathlessly, “You’re an idiot, did you know that?”

Enjolras scowled. “Well what would you have recommended that I do?”

Laughing, Grantaire laced his fingers with Enjolras and tugged him towards his apartment building. “You could’ve tried, ‘I have come to sleep with you.’ I hear it worked for Courfeyrac and Marius.”

"But I didn’t come here to sleep with you," Enjolras said quickly, panicking. "I just wanted to tell you that I liked you. This wasn’t a…a…whatchamacallit…a butt call or whatever."

Grantaire cracked up, having to actually stop and bury his face in Enjolras’s shoulder for support as he was laughing so hard. “A booty call,” he managed when he finally stopped laughing. “I think you mean a booty call.”

Enjolras nodded, not understanding what, precisely, Grantaire found so funny. “Right. That. I’m not here for that.” He pushed Grantaire away from him for just a moment, holding him upright and looking at him seriously. “I…this…I’m not here for that. I mean, I didn’t come here with that in mind. I…I like you.”

"You yelled that at my window five separate times," Grantaire told him gently. "I think I got that. But since you are here, and since it is late, and since I am going to have to get you out of these clothes  _anyway_ , or else you’ll get sick and Joly won’t talk to you for a week, I figure…may as well, right?”

Enjolras nodded agreeably, then frowned, shaking his head. “Wait, may as well what?”

Grantaire just laughed, kissing again and shoving him in the direction of his apartment. “Get that fantastic booty inside and I will show you what.”


	19. Courfeyrac/Jehan - Break-up Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follows from my [Courfeyrac cheating on Jehan](http://archiveofourown.org/works/841398/chapters/1697879) and [Courf/Jehan fighting](http://archiveofourown.org/works/841398/chapters/1713250) drabbles.
> 
> Features a bit of E/R because it's me and these things are to be expected, and also a tiny bit of Joly/Bossuet.

The mood inside the Musain was tense. No one was talking; everyone was pointedly avoiding looking at Courfeyrac, who sat in the corner, half-empty bottle of vodka in front of him, rumpled and dishevelled, looking far more like Grantaire than anything.

Jehan was conspicuous only by his absence, which after a long and awkward moment, Enjolras called out as unobtrusively as he could. “Grantaire, did Jehan say anything about whether he was coming tonight?”

“He should be here.” Grantaire’s voice was low and he avoided looking at Courfeyrac, who had perked up slightly at the news that Jehan was coming. “He texted to say he was running late. He’s…” Grantaire almost stopped, but then his jaw clenched determinedly. “He’s on a date.”

Just as quickly as Courfeyrac had perked up he deflated, sinking down in his seat. “A date?” he asked softly, his voice hoarse from crying and from disuse. “With who?”

Grantaire looked at him for the first time, his gaze entirely hostile. “Firstly, none of your goddamned business. Secondly, hell if I know. Jehan’s been on twenty some odd dates since you broke up. I don’t think he’s spent a single night alone in our apartment. And I say good for him. Now that he’s rid of the dead weight in his life—”

“Grantaire,” said Combeferre sharply, as Courfeyrac closed his eyes, visibly pained. “That’s enough.”

“He’s not wrong,” Bahorel muttered mutinously from the corner, hand tightening around his beer bottle as he glared at Courfeyrac. When Combeferre turned to look exasperatedly at him, Bahorel shrugged, still glaring. “What? You can’t seriously tell me that you’re not pissed.”

Combeferre looked down. “I…” He trailed off. “Jehan and Courfeyrac’s relationship and its ending is none of our business. It’s between them and them alone.”

“C’mon Ferre, that’s bullshit.” It was Joly who piped up now, rather unexpectedly, and he flushed slightly, seeming to realize that he had stepped out of line, but he barreled forward regardless. “Everything that happens to one of us in this group affects all of us. We’ve joked for years about how weirdly incestuous our group is, but on the other hand, it’s kind of true. Half of us live together, the other half of us are dating or - or screwing—” if possible, Joly’s blush deepened and Bossuet squeezed his hand “—and above all of that we’re friends. You hurt one of us, you hurt all of us.” He lifted his chin defiantly. “And Courfeyrac hurt Jehan in the worst way possible. So forgive us for being a little angry with him.”

Bossuet nodded in agreement and added, “Not just angry. Fucking furious.”

Courfeyrac stirred slightly in his seat. “I’m sitting right here, you know,” he said gruffly.

“Fine,” said Feuilly, sounding as tense as everyone felt. “Then tell us, Courf, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” Courfeyrac snapped, for just a moment sounding like his old self. “Clearly. Or do you think that I purposefully wanted to ruin my own life? I’m not Grantaire, for fuck’s sake.”

Grantaire swivelled around in his seat, eyes blazing. “Excuse me?” he snarled, starting to rise from his seat, but Enjolras’s hand clapped down heavily on his shoulder.

Enjolras didn’t even look in Courfeyrac’s direction. “Enough,” he said, tone final. “The fact of the matter is that Courfeyrac fucked up. And there is nothing any of us can do about it besides support Jehan as he needs us.” He glared around as if daring anyone to contradict him, and then sighed and rubbed his forehead. “This is why inter-group dating should not be allowed,” he muttered, clearly frustrated. “We have actual work that needs to be done, work far more important than this back and forth bickering.”

Under his hand, Grantaire had stiffened, and Joly and Bossuet exchanged nervous glances. Enjolras sighed again. “It’s clear we’re not going to get anything done tonight,” he said, still without looking at Courfeyrac. “Go home. Think about all of this. We’ll reconvene next week.”

Everyone scurried to head out as quickly as they could. No one looked at Courfeyrac as they passed him, save for Combeferre, who gave him a look that was deeply disappointed. Grantaire shrugged out from under Enjolras’s hand, which was still resting on his shoulder. “Inter-group dating should not be allowed, huh?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

“Truthfully?” Enjolras asked, dropping into the chair across from him. “No. It shouldn’t be. Because think of what will happen when we break up, the sides people will be forced to take. Everything we’ve worked for, all of it will fall apart with the group split, and the work that we still have to do will suffer, is be completed at all. And our work is so much more important than that.”

Grantaire had stopped listening long ago, his face expressionless. “When we break up?” he said quietly.

Enjolras raised his eyes to meet Grantaire’s and frowned. “If,” he corrected, softly. “I meant if.” He reached out to touch Grantaire’s hand. “You know I didn’t mean when,” he said, quietly, tucking a lock of Grantaire’s hair behind his ear. “At least, not like that.”

Grantaire couldn’t stop himself from nuzzling against Enjolras’s hand, though his eyes were still troubled. “I know that. It’s just…I’m worried about Jehan. And everything.”

Enjolras traced Grantaire’s cheekbone with his finger, dipping down to run his thumb slowly across Grantaire’s lips. “He is your best friend; you have every right to be.” Enjolras’s voice was quiet, almost contemplative. “I think I may have lost one of my best friends, and while it’s not my fault, still…I can understand your concern.”

Reaching up, Grantaire caught Enjolras’s hand in his own. “Let’s go home,” he said.

Enjolras stood without letting go of Grantaire’s hand and led him out of the Musain, purposefully ignoring Courfeyrac, who looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Enj—” he started, but broke off when Enjolras looked right through him, eyes tempestuous. “I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac whispered, looking anguished. Enjolras turned away, but Courfeyrac thought he saw Enjolras’s face tighten slightly. Then Enjolras and Grantaire were gone, and Courfeyrac all but collapsed against the table.

If he had any tears left, he surely would have cried more, but Courfeyrac was all cried out. He had fucked up, and seemingly irrevocably. But tonight had reminded him of everything he stood to lose permanently. And that alone had done what nothing had been able to do since that infamous morning: it filled him with resolve to make this right, even if he had no clue how to even begin.


	20. E/R - Amorous only with the lights out

It was like something out of a dream. A dream, at least, that Enjolras hadn’t even known he had.

He and Grantaire had kissed two weeks ago, been technically dating ever since, and it was incredible. They argued and kissed and fought and kissed and went on dates and, well, argued and kissed some more. And when they got home, Grantaire would push Enjolras into the bedroom, shutting the door after them.

And turning the lights off.

The first time Enjolras laughed a little, assuming that Grantaire thought the lack of light would make him relax a little (his virgin status was an exaggeration, but not by much, and it had been years since he had done this). But then Grantaire kept turning the light off, making sure they only had sex with the lights off.

It puzzled Enjolras. He would have thought that Grantaire would want the lights on, would want to look at Enjolras as they had sex. He spent enough time looking at Enjolras with the lights on, tracing his body with his eyes, whispering in Enjolras’s ear how sexy and hot he thought he was. 

Maybe Enjolras had misunderstood.

But how in the world does one misunderstand “You look like walking sex”?

Enjolras started wearing less clothes around whenever he could, wandering into the kitchen after his shower with just a towel wrapped around his waist, or chilling out on the couch without his shirt on.

It felt ridiculous.

But Grantaire’s mouth literally watered whenever he did this, which perplexed Enjolras even more. If it wasn’t him, then what was it?

So that night, as Grantaire was kissing down his neck and fumbling for the light switch, Enjolras said softly, “Why don’t we leave the lights on tonight?”

Instantly, Grantaire pulled away, his face dropping into a guarded expression. “Why would you want to leave the lights on?” he asked softly.

Arching an eyebrow at him, Enjolras said, equally as quiet, “So that I can actually look at you when we have sex?”

A muscle worked in Grantaire’s jaw and he shook his head, looking down at the floor. “You don’t want that,” he said, something desperate in his voice. “Trust me on that - I’m nothing to look at. Not like you.”

And in that moment, Enjolras understood, understood completely why Grantaire turned the lights off, why Grantaire never joined him in discarding various items of clothing. He swallowed and reached out, lacing his fingers with Grantaire’s. “Listen to me,” he commanded, his voice still soft. “I think that you are absolutely, amazingly beautiful. I want to see you. I want to see  _all_  of you. I don’t think I can stop looking at you.” He paused for a moment, then added, even quieter, “Please?”

After a long moment, Grantaire shrugged helplessly and tugged his shirt up over his head, closing his eyes tightly to not be forced to see the revulsion that would certainly cross Enjolras’s face. Instead, he heard a gentle exhale of breath and felt gentle hands run across his chest, down his sides. “Grantaire,” Enjolras breathed. “You are gorgeous. Open your eyes.”

Grantaire shook his head, feeling tears threaten in them, and Enjolras cupped his cheek with one hand, the other planted firmly on his chest. “Please open your eyes.”

Finally, Grantaire did so, and was surprised to see that Enjolras was looking at him without any trace of revulsion or disgust on his face. In fact, he was…he was looking at Grantaire the way that Grantaire looked at him, and Grantaire flushed deeply, looking down at the ground. “You  _are_  beautiful,” Enjolras told him again. “I mean it.”

"Thank you," Grantaire mumbled softly, already reaching out again for the light switch, "but I’m really not. Not next to you."

"You don’t believe me?" Enjolras voice was perhaps sharper than he meant it to be.

Grantaire didn’t seem to mind. “I believe that you think that I am beautiful,” he said, quietly. “But I don’t believe that you realize how beautiful you are, and how I will always pale in comparison, how I don’t even deserve to be held in comparison. I know how lucky I am, don’t worry.”

Enjolras reached out again, covering Grantaire’s hand on the light switch with his own. “Grantaire…” he started, but Grantaire just shook his head, looking back at Enjolras with something indefinable in his eyes.

"Please, Enj," he whispered, and after a long moment, Enjolras nodded, releasing Grantaire’s hand, letting him turn the light off before leading him to their bed.

He was more determined than ever to prove to Grantaire how beautiful he was.


	21. E/R - What it is about him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone on tumblr wanted my opinion on whether the term '[sapiosexual](http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=sapiosexual)' could define E/R, and, well, my response turned into this.

He doesn’t know what it is about him.

It’s one of the first things Enjolras tries to pin down, after the realization that these feelings towards Grantaire aren’t just the result of some bad food or a knock on the head (though he almost wishes it was, if only because it would be easier for all of them).

Grantaire’s mind is the first thing that Enjolras lands on, because certainly Grantaire has a breadth of knowledge unparalleled by any of their friends, but intelligence alone isn’t enough to captivate Enjolras. If it was, there were a number of their friends with more depth of knowledge in certain areas who would fit the bill, but Enjolras has certainly never considered bending Combeferre over a table and—

Well, you get the point.

Besides, intelligence can be overshadowed by other, less redeeming qualities. If Courfeyrac is to be believed, his bizarre stray-puppy roommate is quite the intellectual, but Enjolras dismisses that out of hand because he can’t wrap his mind around someone supposedly  _that_  intelligent having  _those_  political beliefs. And when it comes to Grantaire, well, the man seems determined to put his intelligence to the worst use possible, which frustrates Enjolras more than excites him.

His humor, perhaps? Well, Enjolras is never one for joking and puns like their friends tend to be (even Combeferre finds Grantaire witty in that regard, which is telling), but he’s been known to crack a smile at something Grantaire’s said, often at the most inopportune times (like in the middle of a speech. And it’s never just a smile, it’s a goofy grin, remembering something Grantaire said or did and it’s  _embarrassing_  damnit).

His looks, then? Enjolras will stubbornly claim until the day he dies that looks do not matter. He’s dismissive enough of his own beauty that perhaps there’s some truth to that, but even he has to admit that Grantaire isn’t entirely conventionally attractive. Not ugly enough to repulse, certainly, but not handsome enough to be noticeable in that regard. Just sort of plain.

Whatever it is about Grantaire, it’s something that can’t be easily explained or named and categorized. It’s indefinable — much like the man himself. There’s loyalty there, to their friends if not their cause, and kindness, more than Enjolras would ever have expected. There’s determination, too — a lesser man would have left and not returned after so many spats with Enjolras — even if it’s couched in stubbornness. There’s talent — oh, there’s talent, and in so many different things, things Enjolras would never dream of trying, let alone become an expert at. But even those aren’t enough to explain it. 

Grantaire is a problem. Grantaire is a distraction. Grantaire is a  _challenge_ _._

And maybe that’s it, right there — Grantaire is a mystery wrapped in an enigma and completely and utterly full of  _potential_. And what does Enjolras love more than potential, whether it’s potential in the people to throw off their shackles, potential in the system to bend to the people’s will, or potential in a lover who will frustrate and challenge him and possibly make him a better person?

Because the thing that Grantaire has, most of all, is the potential to be more, to be better, and Enjolras will not rest until Grantaire sees that, too. And maybe it’s not the most conventional form of love, maybe it’s not the stuff of great romance, but ten, twenty, thirty years down the line, it’s what’s going to keep Enjolras there, on his toes, trying to get Grantaire to just  _listen_  and see his side of the argument for one minute, while Grantaire just smirks at him until he gives up and kisses him.

Because maybe there’s potential in Enjolras to change, too.


	22. Joly/Jehan - An Overwhelming Desire to Kiss

Sinful.

It was the only word for Prouvaire’s mouth, the only word that even began to capture what Joly thought of Prouvaire’s mouth, the only word that reminded Joly every time he looked at at Jehan that he was surely going to hell for the thoughts that ran through his head.

It didn’t help that Prouvaire had what Joly would term an oral fixation, never mind the Freudian implications. Jehan always seemed to have something in his mouth, most often a pen or, when he was writing with said pen, the pen’s cap, but other things as well, food, gum, mints - Joly swore that Jehan consumed Altoids as if they were crack.

All of these things led to Joly staring for what seemed like hours at a time at Jehan’s mouth as his lips moved, pursed around whatever pen or pencil he has just put into his mouth, his tongue sometimes flicking out to wet his lips, to lick the corners of his mouth, or even just to hang out in concentration if he was working really hard on something.

And all of these things, all of the long hours spent staring at Prouvaire’s mouth, led to Joly spending hours thinking of what it would be like if that sinful mouth met his, if his lips touched Jehan’s, if Jehan’s tongue were to lick into his mouth the way it licked his lips. He imagined what it would feel like to have their lips pressed together, their mouths opening against the other, their gasps and moans and other little noises swallowed by the other’s mouth. He dreamt of those sweet, sinful lips pressing kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, running down his throat to press at his collarbone, peppering kisses across his chest and then, further down…

Then, one night, after a long meeting at the Musain, after everyone else had disappeared, Joly got to find out exactly what it felt like as Jehan pulled him down and kissed him square on the lips.

It was far better than his dreams and his imaginings. It was…

Sinful.


	23. Enjolras, Combeferre, & Courfeyrac friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a drabble I wrote while drunk.
> 
> I cannot, therefore, explain any of the context surrounding this fic. 
> 
> But hey, enjoy it anyway :D

[ _From: Courfeyrac_ ] Please don’t do it

[ _From: Courfeyrac_ ] Seriously if I’m telling you not to do it it’s a bad idea

[ _From: Courfeyrac_ ] DO I REALLY HAVE TO BE THE VOICE OF REASON HERE?

[ _From: Courfeyrac_ ] YOU KNOW THIS IS A BAD PLAN WHEN I HAVE TO BE THE VOICE OF REASON

Enjolras glared at Combeferre. “Would you turn your phone off?” he hissed. “We’re going to get caught from the noise that you’re phone is making!”

"It’s not my fault Courfeyrac changed my ringtone to ‘Let it Go’," Combeferre whispered back, his voice strained. "And besides, this was  _your_ idea.”

"And this was  _your_  plan for carrying out  _my_  idea,” Enjolras shot back, his voice raising slightly. “What does Courfeyrac want anyway?”

Combeferre shrugged as his phone started playing that dreaded song once again, despite his hasty attempts to silence it. “He thinks this is a bad idea.”

"And he thought  _now_  was a good time to tell us so?” Enjolras half shouted. “Tell him next time to let us know before my entire car is full of chickens!”

The birds in question let out completely unhelpful squawks as they pecked their way around Enjolras’s back seat, and Combeferre sighed, fishing his cell phone out of his pocket to read [ _From: Courfeyrac_ ] BUT WHAT DO YOU PLAN ON DOING WITH THE CHICKENS ONCE YOU’VE STOLEN THEM???

"I hate when Courfeyrac’s the voice of reason," Combeferre sighed, closing his eyes and leaning back against the seat and trying to ignore the chicken currently perching on his lap.


	24. Grantaire and Envy

Most of the time when Grantaire drinks, he stares at Enjolras. Everyone knows that (except, of course, for maybe Enjolras, who can be rather oblivious about some things). But some nights, when the ache of looking at Enjolras’s ethereal beauty isn’t quite enough, he stares instead at the pairs of lovers in his life, and wonders what they did to get what they have (what he needs to do to get what they have).

He’ll stare at Marius and Cosette, so wrapped up in themselves and their own little world that it’s a wonder they even come out with them at all. He watches Marius’s puppy-dog act with the bitterness of someone who has been scorned so many times he cannot remember what it is to be as naive as this young man. And he wonders why it is that Cosette flips her golden curls and laughs when Marius looks at her like that, when his own love with golden curls merely gives him a look of disdain whenever Grantaire expresses similar thoughts.

(“ _Grantaire, will you do me a service?_ ”  
” _Anything. I’ll black your boots_.”)

Or else he stares at Bossuet and Joly, both of them laughing, always laughing it seems. Their love is so full that it takes in a third party, though Musichetta rarely joins them for meetings. He looks at Bossuet, who is, after all, perhaps another of Les Amis who, like Grantaire, would not be described as conventionally handsome. But Joly, it seems, does not mind, rubbing his bald head, scratching his fingernails through Bossuet’s beard, pulling him in to kiss him lightly. And laughing together. Always laughing, with so much joy. He wonders what Bossuet did to be so damn lucky to have someone like Joly and Musichetta, who love him in spite of - or even because of - his flaws.

Grantaire stares at the lovers as he drinks his wine, and he envies them their happiness, and he despairs for the fact that he shall never have his own.


	25. Joly/Jehan - Steamy kiss

Joly shifted uncomfortably against the bar, waiting for the bartender to bring him his beer. The man on the barstool closest to him was leering at him in a way that made Joly feel incredibly uncomfortable, mainly because the guy was about twice as large as Joly and if he started anything, well. “What’s your name?” the guy asked, grinning when Joly flushed and averted his eyes.

"Um," Joly said, stalling for time as he glanced around for someone,  _anyone_  to come to his rescue. 

Suddenly, he heard a call of, “Jolllly!” and there was Jehan, grinning at him and heading over. Joly thought he might pass out with relief, especially since Jehan slotted himself between Joly and the guy on the barstool, winking at Joly before saying, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, babe.”

_Babe_? Joly thought, unable to process that fully because Jehan leaned in, grabbing the front of Joly’s shirt and pulling him into a fierce kiss.

Joly thought his mind might be melting because he couldn’t seem to formulate any kind of response besides kissing back, fisting one hand in Jehan’s hair as the other circled his waist. The kiss was like fire, all teeth and tongues and aggressively trying to devour the other. Joly didn’t know if he had ever been kissed like this before, didn’t know if he had ever realized it was  _possible_  to be kissed like this.

Jehan was relentless, turning Joly so that his back was against the bar and practically grinding against him, his hands running down Joly’s chest to rest possessively on his hips. When they finally broke apart, they only moved apart far enough for Joly to gasp for breath, their lips still only inches apart.

To Joly’s immense embarrassment, half the people in the bar broke into applause at their display, and Jehan just turned and waved once. He grinned at Joly, who managed a small smile. “Ready to go?” Jehan asked, hand circling Joly’s wrist. 

"Um, sure," Joly said, allowing Jehan to pull him out of the bar. 

Once they were outside, Jehan started laughing, throwing a companionable arm around Joly’s shoulders. “You should have seen your face,” he told him, chuckling. “Fantastic.”

Joly blushed and ducked his head. “Well, I can’t say that I was expecting  _that_ ,” he said wryly.

"I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you," Jehan said, turning more serious. "I hope you don’t mind, you just looked really uncomfortable and I thought…"

Shaking his head, Joly leaned in and kissed Jehan again, a gentler kiss. “I didn’t mind. I just want to do it again. Somewhere where we perhaps don’t have as much of an audience?”

Something in Jehan’s eyes darkened and he kissed Joly, slow and heady, pulling him close. “I think that can be arranged.”


	26. E/R - Meeting while dropping kids off at school

“And what are you going to say to your teacher?” Enjolras asked sternly.

Gavroche sighed and rolled his eyes, scuffing his shoe against the ground as he reluctantly recited, “I’m sorry for acting out in class yesterday. Individual liberties are…”

He trailed off, clearly searching for the right words, and Enjolras cleared his throat and prompted him gently, “Individual liberties are important but cannot infringe—”

“—But cannot infringe on the liberties of others and so I promise not to interrupt you and the learning of my fellow students,” Gavroche finished in a rush, giving Enjolras a wide, gap-toothed smile. “Can I  _puh-lease_  go play with my friends now?”

Enjolras laughed and ruffled Gavroche’s hair. “Fine. But if I get word that you’ve been anything but a good Citizen today, you’re going to regret it.”

Gavroche let out a whoop and sprinted towards the playground, and Enjolras smiled fondly. A guy standing a few feet away cleared his throat and said, a little awkwardly, “Your son is adorable.”

Turning, Enjolras looked appraisingly at the guy in question, whose dark curls were haphazardly pulled into a ponytail with a bangled barrette and tiara perched precariously on top of his head, holding a large coffeecup with what appeared to be glitter nail polish applied sloppily to half of his fingernails. “Oh, he’s not my son,” Enjolras assured him. “He’s…well, he’s kind of a long story, to be entirely honest. And what about you — boy or girl?”

The guy grinned. “I cannot even begin to tell you how happy I am that you didn’t just assume I have a daughter, though in this case, the assumption would be correct.” He nodded at a little girl who was swinging on the swings, dressed in a football jersey and a tutu and singing at the top of her lungs. “That little princess is mine.”

“She’s adorable,” Enjolras said, then offered his hand for the guy to shake. “My name’s Enjolras, and I am very happy to know you don’t consider your masculinity threatened by the tiara and nail polish.”

Shaking his hand, the guy said, “My name’s Grantaire. And trust me, if the worst thing someone can say about me is that I must be gay because I let my daughter paint my nails and put a tiara in my hair, well…they’d only be half-wrong, so.” Enjolras shook his head and laughed, and Grantaire smiled a little crookedly at him. “Hey, if you’ve got time, you want to get some coffee or something? I’d love to hear the long story about your…not-son.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow at the cup of coffee still in Grantaire’s hand. “Are you sure you’re not already caffeinated enough?”

“As if,” Grantaire scoffed. “I need at  _least_  two more cups to function.” He glanced nervously at Enjolras. “So what do you say?”

Though Enjolras should really be getting into the office, and should  _really_  be updating Gavroche’s parole officer about everything, he couldn’t help but feel like maybe, for once, for the guy wearing a tiara and nail polish, he could make an exception. “Sure,” he agreed. “I’d like that.”


	27. Valvert - Cop/person getting a speeding ticket

Valjean saw the flashing red and blue lights behind his car and had to resist the urge to put the pedal to the metal in a high-speed chase just to get out of there. He had to take a deep breath and consciously remind himself that to everyone, he was Mayor Madeleine, not a convict on the run from the law, and so he pulled over and forced a pleasant smile on his face for whichever officer was pulling him over.

The smile turned into a look of surprise when he saw it was the newly assigned state trooper in charge of the city’s post, Javert. “Inspector Javert,” he said, as he rolled his window down, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

Javert looked equally surprised. “Mr. Mayor. I apologize — I didn’t realize—” The tips of his ears burned red and he blurted, “Did you know you were going ten miles over the posted speed limit?”

Valjean winced. “Yes, I — well, I forgot that the city council voted to lower the speed limit on this road, and my mind, I admit, was elsewhere.”

Javert hesitated for a long moment, a hand almost nervously smoothing the front of his state trooper uniform jacket. “I should write you a ticket,” he said slowly, “but I imagine the state’s attorney will just have the case dismissed, and will probably reprimand me on wasting his time.”

“You must do what you think is right,” Valjean said slowly. “You are bound by the law, after all.”

He hadn’t meant for the latter part of his statement to sound as bitter as it did, and Javert looked taken aback for a moment before nodding, his expression hardening. “You are right. I am bound by the law.” Then, surprisingly, he took a step back from the car. “But the law is not served by me writing you a speeding ticket. Go on your way, Mr. Mayor, and obey the speed limit a bit closer in the future.”

Valjean managed a smile. “I will. Thank you. And I’ll make sure to let your supervisor know that you’re doing an exemplary job here, and we couldn’t be happier with your assignment.” He rolled up his window and slowly pulled away from the curb, only breathing a sigh of relief when he was far enough away that Javert could not possibly have seen him.

Javert stood and watched Valjean leave, something contemplative in his expression, and then slowly walked back to his car and pulled out his cellphone. “Hello,” he said, when the person on the other end picked up, “it’s Inspector Javert. I need a background check done, off the official radar.”

He paused and waited for the person to respond, and when asked for the name of the person he wanted to run a background check on, looked down the road where the mayor’s car had disappeared and said in a low voice, “Mr. Madeleine. The Mayor.”


	28. E/R - Childhood Best Friends

“Tag, you’re it!”

Enjolras glared up at the grinning dark-haired boy who had just tapped his shoulder as he ran past. “I’m not playing,” he said haughtily.

The boy rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t matter,” he said, impatient. “It’s  _tag_. When you’re it, you’re it.”

That kind of logic would perhaps not have made any sense to an adult, but to children, this was irrefutable. Enjolras heaved a sigh and got to his feet, reaching out to shove the boy’s shoulder. “Fine.  _You’re_  it.”

“No tag backs,” the boy said, sticking out his tongue, before adding, in the casual, off-hand way of a child, “M’Grantaire, by the way.”

“Enjolras,” Enjolras said, glancing around. “Is anyone else even playing?”

Grantaire grinned. “No,” he said. “You just weren’t doing anything so I thought maybe you’d want to play.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed and he huffed, “Don’t you have any friends of your own?”

Grantaire pouted and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Course I do,” he said, a little haughtily. “Got lots of friends.  _You’re_  the one who’s sitting by himself at recess.”

Enjolras scowled and looked down at the ground. “I was put in time out,” he muttered.

“What?”

“I was put in time out by my teacher,” Enjolras said, louder, glaring at Grantaire as if daring him to make fun of him. “She said I was misbehaving because I was trying to explain why not allowing some students to stay inside if they want to read or just don’t want to play outside wasn’t fair, so she put me in time out.”

Grantaire frowned. “That’s not fair,” he said. “My best friend, Bossuet, he broke his arm so he  _has_  to stay inside and he’d love to have friends to hang out with so he’s not by himself.”

Enjolras nodded. “Right. And my best friend Combeferre wants to stay inside ‘cause he doesn’t like playing outside and the library won’t let him bring books outside with him, and I think he should if he wants to.”

Grantaire considered Enjolras for a long moment, his head cocked slightly to one side, and then he grinned. “We should be best friends,” he declared, apropos of nothing.

“I already have a best friend,” Enjolras said automatically, staring at Grantaire.

“So do I,” Grantaire shot back. “Two of them, actually, Bossuet and Joly, and we’re the bestest friends ever, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be best friends, too.”

Enjolras frowned but nodded. “I have two bestest friends, too, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but I guess we could maybe be best friends.” He looked at Grantaire hopefully. “Is it because you want to help me change the rules for recess?”

Grantaire grinned and slung an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders. “Nope,” he said cheerfully. “It’s ‘cause I want to be best friends with anyone who gets themselves stuck in time out for something so stupid.”

Enjolras let out a squawk on indignation. “It’s not stupid!” he half-shouted, and stomped his foot. “And now I don’t want to be best friends with you!”

“Too late,” Grantaire said cheekily, darting away from Enjolras and shouting over his shoulder, “See you later, best friend!”

Enjolras scowled after him. He had a feeling he had just become best friends with the most annoying kid on the planet. A few weeks later, a kid named Marius Pontmercy would transfer into his class and prove him wrong because not even Grantaire was more annoying than him, but for now, he could do nothing but sit back on the ground and glare at Grantaire who was destined to be a thorn in his side for a long time to come.


	29. Courfeyrac/Jehan - Meeting at a party while drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mistaken gender identity and, obviously, alcohol.

“You’re the prettiest fucking girl I’ve ever seen.”

Jehan sighed, his grip on his red Solo cup filled with cheap beer tightening. With practiced patience, he forced a smile on his face and flipped his long, auburn hair as he turned to flutter his eyelashes at the inevitable dude-bro who had made the mistake of trying to flirt with him. “I’m not a girl,” he said, his low baritone voice proving his point even if a low voice shouldn’t prove anything about gender.

The guy’s eyes widened, and Jehan mentally cringed, waiting for the inevitable questions and freakout that would soon ensue, since a man wearing a skirt was  _obviously_  an attack on masculinity writ large. “Dude,” the guy said, breaking into a smile, his words slurred slightly, “that’s even fucking better.”

“Seriously?” Jehan said, a little skeptically, and not just because he was far more used to mocking than to acceptance of any kind, let alone acceptance that quickly. “You don’t think it’s weird that I’m a guy wearing a skirt?”

It wasn’t that he  _wanted_  the guy — who on closer observation was  _extremely cute_  — to say that it was, he just wasn’t sure how to wrap his mind around it otherwise. “Nah, man, I get enough shit when I try to explain to people that I’m pan, so I’m not gonna judge. Especially when you look damn good in it. I mean, christ, your  _ass_.”

He said it as a complete sentence and Jehan couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, glad to hear that. I’m Jean Prouvaire, by the way, but you can call me Jehan.”

“Courfeyrac,” the guy told him with the kind of smirk that suggested his reputation probably preceded him in some circles, which it very well might have, were it not for the fact that, for obvious reasons, Jehan rarely ventured outside of his very small social circle. “Can I ask what pronouns you prefer?”

He said it in a way that made it almost sound like a pickup line, which made Jehan roll his eyes. “He/him is fine for the moment,” he told him, the flush on his cheeks not just from the copious amounts of alcohol. “And you’re sure you don’t find this weird?”

Though Jehan didn’t mean to keep pressing the point, knew that he should just accept it as a happy fact that the guy who decided to hit on him didn’t seem to care about the way he chose to express himself, years of questions and mocking were hard things to get rid of, even as Courfeyrac shook his head. “What’s under that skirt matters less than how fucking good it looks on you!” Courfeyrac said emphatically, then paused. “I mean…ok, that sounded bad, but like, you know what I mean, right?”

“Oh, so it’s just how good I look that you’re interested in?” Jehan teased. “And you’re not at  _all_  interested in what’s under my skirt?”

Courfeyrac grinned and winked at him. “I mean, I’d be happy with whatever was under that skirt, though I will not be finding that out tonight, because—” he leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, as if Jehan couldn’t already tell “—I’m  _drunk_.”

Jehan mock-gasped. “No, you don’t say?”

Laughing, Courfeyrac pulled out his cell phone. “If you wanted, though, I’d love to give you my phone number so we can continue this conversation later. But only if you wanted.”

For the first time, Jehan didn’t hesitate. “Sure,” he said, grabbing Courfeyrac’s phone and typing his number into it. “Though I can’t promise I’ll be wearing as cute of a skirt when next you see me.”

Courfeyrac leered at him. “I have a feeling your ass would look fabulous in anything.” He held out his hand for Jehan to shake, and then, when Jehan had gripped it, lifted Jehan’s hand to his mouth to kiss the back of it. “I look forward to seeing you again, Jean Prouvaire, called Jehan.”

“And I, you,” Jehan said, watching as Courfeyrac slipped back into the crowd before pulling out his own phone to text Grantaire, who was hosting the party: [ _I need to know everything you know about a guy named Courfeyrac._ ]

Within seconds, Grantaire had texted back. [ _Dare I ask why?_ ]

Jehan grinned. [ _He thought my skirt made my ass look good._ ]

[ _DUUUUUUUUUDE. Youre obviously meant to be._ ]

Jehan’s grin widened. [ _Well, maybe we are_.]


	30. Courfeyrac/Marius - Breathe Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW for panic attacks**.

“Courfeyrac?” Marius called as he let himself into the apartment. “Courf?”

He heard a low noise coming from Courfeyrac’s bedroom and hurried over, concerned. “Courfeyrac, I—” He broke off, seeing Courfeyrac curled around himself on the edge of his bed, his breathing ragged and uneven, staring unseeingly up at Marius.

It wasn’t the first time Marius had found Courfeyrac like this, although the times were few and far between. Courfeyrac was strong, so strong, stronger than he gave himself credit for, but he also tried to be strong for everyone else, and sometimes…well, sometimes that left him like this, in the grips of a panic that he couldn’t quite shake on his own.

Marius knelt swiftly in front of Courfeyrac, not bothering to ask what had brought this on, just wanted to make sure he was ok. “Hey,” he said, concerned, his hand hovering above Courfeyrac’s knee. “Breathe, ok? Just breathe.”

Courfeyrac nodded, eager as always to please, to hold things together because that was his role, not wanting to disappoint Marius of all people, sometimes the only one who seemed willing to listen to him and to still care about what he had to say outside of the Cause, but his breath didn’t seem to come any easier, and the tightness in his chest didn’t recede.

Marius’s frown deepened, his eyes tight with worry. “I don’t want to touch you in case I make it worse,” he said in a low voice. “But I’m here and I’m not going anywhere, for what good that might do.”

Under different circumstances, Courfeyrac might have managed a smile to let Marius know that it mattered, and quite a lot, but right now, all he could do was reach forward and grab Marius’s hands in both of his, hoping that his grip wasn’t as deathly tight as it felt. If it was, Marius made no mention of it, leaning forward so that his forehead rested lightly against Courfeyrac’s. “Breathe with me,” he said quietly. “Just try to match my breathing — in and out. Breathe with me until you can breathe again on your own.”

And so Courfeyrac did, or tried to, his grip on Marius not loosening as he struggled to breathe in and out in time to Marius’s steady, calming breaths. How long they stayed like that, for a few minutes or an hour or even longer, Courfeyrac couldn’t say, focusing only on Marius’s hands in his, the steady pounding of Marius’s heartbeat, and way that Marius didn’t seem distracted or wanting to pull away.

In many ways it was more than Courfeyrac could ever have asked for.

Finally, though, his breathing slowed to a normal pace, as did his heartbeat, and he was able to loosen his grip on Marius’s fingers and smile shakily up at him. “I…I think I’m ok now,” he said quietly, before adding, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Marius told him, sincerely. “I owe you so much that this is the absolute least I could do. Seriously.” He hesitated for just a moment before leaning forward to kiss Courfeyrac’s forehead. “And anytime you need me, I’ll do the same thing.”

Courfeyrac’s smile was a little steadier as he joked lightly, “Don’t promise something like that, or I’ll hold you to it.”

Marius smiled back as he promised again, “Anytime. I mean it. Anytime.”


	31. E/R - Upside-down Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on an episode of the OC.

"No." Enjolras’s voice was firm, with an edge of incredulity to it as if he couldn’t really believe what he was saying. "No, I’m not doing it. It’s not happening."

Grantaire twisted helplessly, keenly aware that he was dangling from the roof of his building with only a probably less-than-reliable rope holding him to the roof, his breath fogging in the Spiderman mask he had borrowed from Bahorel forever ago. “Enjolras?” he asked, sounding surprised. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Enjolras shook his head even harder, ignoring the rain that was pelting both of them. “No,” he repeated. “No, I’ve  _seen_  this movie and I am  _not_ doing it. I refuse.”

"Literally the only thing that I want you to do is to help me get down from here," Grantaire snapped, crossing his arms in front of his chest as best as he could considering he was dangling upside-down. "Unless if you just came over to laugh at me, which, fine, whatever, I’m in no position to stop you from doing so."

"You mean you didn’t do this on purpose?" Enjolras asked, sounding surprised as he took a step closer to Grantaire, who gave up on trying to hold his arms in front of him and let them flop down over his head.

Though Enjolras couldn’t see Grantaire’s face through the mask, he could hear the exasperation as he snapped, “Why in the fuck would I be dangling outside my building in the pouring rain wearing a Spiderman mask  _on purpose_? Have you fucking lost your mind? I was trying to fix the damn satellite dish on top of the building, I slipped, I got caught in the rope and voilà, here I am, apparently for your amusement.”

"Oh." Enjolras’s voice was soft, almost breathy, as he took another step closer to Grantaire. "I thought you were trying to act out the movie."

"What movie?" Grantaire asked, before he stopped, going as still as he could. "What, you mean…Spiderman, and the…"

Enjolras laughed slightly. “Yeah. The, uh, the upside-down kiss.”

"Um." Grantaire’s voice was suddenly higher-pitched than normal. "I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed, necessarily, I just—"

"Good," Enjolras said, reaching out to peel the bottom part of Grantaire’s mask, revealing his mouth, which his kissed, pressing their lips together firmly (mentally thanking whatever power there was that Grantaire had landed so his face was exactly even with Enjolras’s).

Grantaire twisted, trying to figure out what to do with his dangling hands. He settled for crossing them behind Enjolras’s head, almost as if he was putting his arms around Enjolras’s neck. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmured as Enjolras kissed the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I thought you said you weren’t going to do it.”

"Changed my mind," Enjolras muttered, biting Grantaire’s bottom lip and grinning at the stuttered groan from Grantaire in response. "Are you really complaining?"

"Nope," Grantaire said quickly, kissing Enjolras as best as he was able, given the angle. "Not complaining at all."


	32. E/R - Partners in Crime AU

Enjolras crouched next to Grantaire, the finger on his gun twitching, and Grantaire glanced sideways at him before returning his attention to the safe he was supposed to be cracking. “Please tell me you have the safety on that thing on.” He missed the dirty look Enjolras shot him, but smiled nonetheless. “Good.”

“Just hurry up, would you?” Enjolras hissed. “We’re already running late on our timeline, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre will only be able to delay things for so long.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes but didn’t look back at Enjolras as he muttered, “Of course. As your partner in crime, I promise I’m going as fast as my little fingers can go.” He wiggled his fingers to prove his point before putting them back on the safe, something almost reverent in his touch.

It was Enjolras’s turn to roll his eyes. “We’re  _not_ —” he started, but was cut off from a sudden shout. “Shit! Someone’s here.”

“Shit,” Grantaire swore, opening the safe door that he had just cracked. “We’re not going to be able to get the documents out.”

Enjolras nodded, his face pale. “Yeah. We can. You take them. I’ll stay behind and make sure you get out ok.”

Grantaire shook his head impatiently. “I’m not going to let you stay in here and go to jail on my account!”

“It’s not  _on_  your account,” Enjolras snapped. “Those documents are the most important thing, and we need to get them out of here or this entire thing will have been for nothing.”

Rolling his eyes again, Grantaire fished his phone out of his pocket, grabbed the file folder from the safe with perhaps more force than was necessary, and quickly snapped a few pictures of the documents contained within before shoving the folder back into the safe. “There,” he said, tapping something on his phone before shoving it back in his pocket. “I sent the documents to Joly.” With that said, he drew his own gun and flicked the safety off, crouching down next to Enjolras, who glared at him.

“What do you think you’re doing? You have time, so get out of here.”

Grantaire gave him a look. “What part of  _partners_  do you not understand?” he shot back. “You stay, I stay. Simple as that.”

“There’s no point in you going to jail if—” Enjolras started hotly, only to be cut off the only effective way that Grantaire knew how, by kissing him.

Almost against his better judgment, Enjolras leaned into the kiss, automatically reaching up with the hand not holding his gun to tangle his fingers in Grantaire’s dark curls as Grantaire cupped Enjolras’s cheek with his free hand. “Partners,” Grantaire said, a little hoarsely, when they broke apart, and Enjolras nodded silently, his eyes dark.

And together they turned to face the door, both holding their guns study as their free hands met in between them, their fingers lightly lacing together as they waited whomever would come through the door.


	33. Combeferre/Courfeyrac - Forbidden Love AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tagged this on tumblr as "vague noise time period, confused shrug location", and that is still true.

Their meetings had been far too few of recent, a hand-squeeze here, a stolen kiss there, and for the first time in days, they found themselves truly alone for a least a few stolen moments. Courfeyrac crowded Combeferre against the wall and kissed him hungrily, his hand flat against Combeferre’s chest. “I have missed this,” he told him. “I have missed  _you_.”

“And I, you,” Combeferre told him, kissing him back just as fiercely. “Too long has it been since I have held you close.”

Courfeyrac sighed and nodded, twining his fingers with Combeferre’s and leaning in to rest his forehead against Combeferre’s. “If only—” he started, then stopped, a shadow crossing his face.

Combeferre kissed him lightly. “If only what?” he asked.

“If only it could be this simple all the time,” Courfeyrac said quietly. “If only every minute of every day could be spent this way, both of us together, the way it is when we manage to be alone, or else with Les Amis where none would tell the authorities.”

Combeferre’s expression darkened as well. “I wish that, too,” he murmured. “But it is impossible. The law is ironclad.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “I know that as well as any,” he said bitterly. “But still, I grow weary of having to hide this. I grow weary of waving to hide  _you_ , as if you are something of which I should be ashamed, instead of the person I wish to celebrate every single day of my life.”

Combeferre shook his head, a slight smile on his lips. “What would you rather we do?” he asked. “Parade down the street in broad daylight for the world to see?”

He had meant it as an absurdity, as the most extreme thing he could think of in order to make Courfeyrac reconsider, but Courfeyrac just smiled sadly. “Yes,” he said. “That is exactly what I would rather we do, and hang it all in the process. If I am to be arrested, to be hung, even, I would rather do it with the world knowing that I love you.”

For a moment, the breath seemed to catch in Combeferre’s throat, and he wordlessly squeezed Courfeyrac’s hands. “I would want that, too,” he said softly. “But I would so much rather we could parade down the streets, hand in hand, with not a single concern for our safety because the world will be a better place. Do you not see? That is what we aim to accomplish, to change the world, no matter how long it takes.”

Courfeyrac squeezed Combeferre’s hands in return, his eyes flashing as a fierce look sharpened his expression. “And do you not see? Sometimes one must burn the world to the ground in order to change it, and when the time comes, I will gladly be the one holding the match.”

There was much Combeferre wished to say, much too he wished to argue, but instead he leaned in and kissed Courfeyrac before whispering, “Then I shall be at your side, and we shall burn the world together.”


	34. E/R - Meeting Again at a High School Reunion

“Well, if it isn’t Apollo himself,” a sardonic voice drawled from behind Enjolras, and he almost slopped the punch he was pouring over the edge of his cup and onto his suit. “Whoops, didn’t mean to startle you.”

Enjolras took a deep breath before turning around to glare at none other than Grantaire, who appeared to still be as big of a jerk at the age of 28 as he had been at the age of 18. “You didn’t startle me,” he snapped, trying to recover his bearings because Grantaire had, after all, startled him. “I just -- I wasn’t expecting to see you, of all people, here.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “Me, of all people?” he repeated. “What exactly is that supposed to mean? It is also _my_ high school reunion, you realize.”

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras said impatiently, “Yeah, but it wasn’t exactly like you were involved in high school. I’m only here because they asked me to make a speech. Unless I recall incorrectly, you _hated_ high school.”

“It had its perks,” Grantaire murmured, raking his eyes slowly up and down Enjolras’s body, as Enjolras blushed. Then he looked up at Enjolras and smiled sweetly. “Besides, we know that the only reason why you were asked to give a speech is because you were elected prom king.” Enjolras flushed and Grantaire’s smile widened. “My god, I forgot how good that particular color looked on you.”

“I may have been elected prom king but I declined my crown,” Enjolras said coldly.

Grantaire cocked his head slightly. “Is that what happened?” he asked coolly. “Because the way I remember it, you were too busy to take the stage to either accept or deny your crown, since unless I’m mistaken, you were in the bathroom getting sucked off by someone.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully as Enjolras’s blush deepened. “Now, who could that someone be?” His smile turned wicked. “Oh, right. It was me.”

Enjolras’s swallowed, hard, his eyes dark. “Maybe we should discuss this elsewhere,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Like in the bathroom, perhaps.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened. “I think that can be arranged.”

* * *

“...and so it is my honor as class president to invite back onstage to receive the crown he wasn’t present to get ten years ago and to give a little speech for us all, my best friend and your wayward prom king, Enjolras!” Courfeyrac finished his introduction and gestured with a flourish at the crowd, beaming as he waited for Enjolras to come forward while the crowd applauded.

The applause quickly fell into puzzled muttering as Enjolras did not appear to take the stage, and Courfeyrac’s smile faded slightly as he scanned the crowd. “Enjolras?” he called, then forced a laugh. “Come on, buddy, let’s not have a repeat of ten years ago.”

Still no Enjolras appeared and two bright spots of anger burned high on Courfeyrac’s cheek. “Well, he said, fake cheerfully, “it looks like we shall have to delay the crowning ceremony. Again. Hopefully this time it won’t take ten more years. Carry on while I track him down!”

Courfeyrac grabbed the crown and jumped off the stage, a look of pure rage on his face as he stormed in the direction of the bathroom, figuring he knew _exactly_ where Enjolras was. Combeferre rushed to intercept him, hands raised placatingly. “Where is he?” Courfeyrac snapped, pushing past Combeferre towards the bathroom. “I swear to God I’m going to shove this crown so far up his ass--”

“I wouldn’t go in there!” Combeferre said quickly, his voice higher-pitched than usual, and Courfeyrac reluctantly stopped as Combeferre added, “I think, uh, I think Enjolras is currently getting something else shoved up his ass.”

For a moment, Courfeyrac just stared at Combeferre, then a grin split his face. “Grantaire?” he asked, and Combeferre nodded. “Well, damn,” Courfeyrac sighed. “I can’t even be mad at him for that, not after all these years.” His expression turned fierce again. “But as soon as he gets out of there, you march him onstage where he is getting this crown!”

With that said, he marched off, leaving Combeferre staring at him in horror. “You mean I have to stay here and listen to this?” he called, but Courfeyrac was too far gone to hear him, and Combeferre shot a dirty look at the bathroom door before settling in to wait.


	35. Combeferre/Grantaire - Meeting at their kids' school

Combeferre shifted uncomfortably in the hard, plastic seat that was too small for a normal-sized adult and sighed. The thing he hated most about parent-teacher conferences was the assumption that parents should sit in the same chairs as their students. When the kids were in high school or junior high, even, that might make sense, but in elementary school? Courfeyrac would tease him that the problem was that his hips don’t lie, but Combeferre was pretty sure it was just that these chairs were not made for adults.

He was so deep in thought that he missed the door banging open and only looked up when someone gasped, “Am I too late?”

And when he did glance up, he did a double-take, because the guy standing there, bent over with his hands on his knees as he wheezed for breath, was -- well, hot maybe wasn’t the right word, but something about those dark curls and blue eyes made Combeferre’s stomach feel like it was flip-flopping. “Um,” he managed, unable to articulate much beyond that.

The man looked up as well, and his eyes widened. “Holy shit,” he whispered, then blushed. “I mean, um, you just, uh, you weren’t what I was expecting. Not that that’s a bad thing,” he added hastily. “It is a _very_ not bad thing. But, uh, shouldn’t you be sitting behind the desk?”

“I’m sorry?” Combeferre asked, frowning, and he started rolling up his shirt sleeves, suddenly feeling very warm. The man’s eyes were locked onto Combeferre’s sleeve tattoos, and he thought he heard him make a slight whimpering noise. “What are you talking about?”

It took a long moment for the man to meet his eyes again. “I, uh, I just mean that, um, well, normally the parents, um,” he stuttered before stopping and shaking his head. “I’m sorry. Let me back up.” He held his hand out for Combeferre to shake. “My name’s Grantaire.”

Combeferre stoo and shook his hand. “Combeferre,” he said, a little cautiously. “I’m not sure…”

Grantaire shook his head again. “Right. Yeah. I know I’m late, and I promise it’s not my fault. I had to drop Emma off at the babysitter’s, and then there was traffic, and I realize I seem like a terrible parent but I got out of work late, which is actually not endearing me further, I’m sure, and uh--” He broke off and scratched his ear. “Seriously, shouldn’t the teacher be sitting behind the desk? Also, I thought Emma’s teacher was named--”

“Mr. Mabeuf?” Combeferre supplied, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “He is. I’m not, uh, I’m not a teacher. I’m here for a parent-teacher conference. My son Lucas is in Mr. Mabeuf’s class as well.”

“Oh thank god,” Grantaire sighed, and Combeferre raised an eyebrow at him until he blushed and elaborated, “I was trying to find an appropriate way to tell my daughter’s teacher that he’s fucking hot, but now I can ask you out like a normal person.” If possible, he blushed even further. “I mean, um, provided you’re even single, which I just assumed because you’re here alone and, fucking Christ, I don’t even know if you’re into guys and now on top of assuming you were the teacher I’ve assumed a bunch of other things and I sound like a complete asshole, don’t I?”

Combeferre blinked. “That was a lot to take in,” he said slowly, though he couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face. “But other than assuming I was the teacher, which I definitely am not, you weren’t off on the other assumptions, so.”

Grantaire grinned. “Well, then, in that case, would you like to go out with me sometime? Maybe after this? Emma’s at the sitter all night…” He stopped and looked horrified. “I mean, not _all_ night. Like I’m not leaving my daughter with a babysitter just so I can--” He broke off again. “I’m just going to stop talking now.”

Laughing, Combeferre shook his head. “Lucas is at the sitter until 10, so we can definitely do something after this. That would be great.”

Grantaire grinned again. “Excellent. That sounds like a plan.”

They both just sort of smiled at each other for a moment, and then Grantaire surged forward to kiss Combeferre. It was an abrupt kiss, but Combeferre grabbed him before he could pull away, deepening the kiss until suddenly, the door opened and an elderly gentleman came in and they sprang apart. “Sorry about the wait,” he said, smiling at both of them. “I’m Mr. Mabeuf. Hopefully you two were able to keep yourselves occupied.”

“Yeah, we managed,” Combeferre said, winking at Grantaire, who quickly looked away to avoid laughing. “Managed just fine.”


	36. E/R - Meeting at a Support Group

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW: Cancer, brief mention of physician-assisted suicide.**

Enjolras was the first to the group, as always, sitting in his usual seat and browsing twitter on his phone as he waited for everyone else to get there. He looked up when the first person came in, expecting one of the usuals, or maybe the group leader, but instead he was greeted by a guy around his own age, maybe a few years older, who smirked at him before filling out a name tag with simply ‘R’ and slapping it on his chest. “Hey,” he said, sitting two seats down from Enjolras.

“Hey,” Enjolras said, a little warily. “What’s with the ‘R’?”

The guy’s - R’s - smirk widened. “My name’s Grantaire,” he said, and Enjolras, realizing the pun, snorted and shook his head. “Yeah, it’s lame, but hey, I gotta keep my humor somehow, right?”

Enjolras shrugged. “I suppose so.” He was ready to return to his phone, but instead got distracted by Grantaire pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and tucking it between his lips. “What are you doing?” Enjolras asked sharply.

Grantaire winked at him. “It’s a metaphor, see-” he started.

“Yeah, I’ve read _The Fault in our Stars_ ,” Enjolras said coldly. “That doesn’t mean it’s appropriate.”

Grantaire grinned and reached up almost lazily to take the cigarette out of his mouth and tuck it behind his ear. “Well I guess I won’t ask you to be the Hazel to my Augustus, then.” He nodded towards the spot where Enjolras’s left leg used to be. “Though I suppose you’d be more Augustus, right? Osteosarcoma, I assume?”

A flush rose in Enjolras’s cheeks and he glanced away. “That’s really none of your business.”

“This _is_ a cancer support group,” Grantaire said, as if Enjolras didn’t already know that, as if he hadn’t been going to this support group for years, both before and after they had to take his leg. “I didn’t mean to be rude, I just figured it wasn’t a big deal to ask.”

Enjolras was quiet for a long moment before saying, “Yeah. It was.” He quickly changed the subject. “What about you? I’m assuming by the bald head you’re still doing chemo?”

Grantaire raised a rueful hand to his bald head. “Just finished actually. It’s a real treat,” he said dryly. He glanced over at Enjolras and then away. “I’m only here because my doctor wanted me to come. Thought it might help some of my ‘emotional’ issues.” He glanced back at Enjolras. “Tell me, has it worked for you?”

“I don’t have emotional issues,” Enjolras said stiffly. “I’m channeling what feelings I have about this whole experience into activism, working on access issues especially, and the patients bill of rights, for obvious reasons, but all kinds of other things as well.”

Grantaire smiled grimly. “How would you feel about adding euthanasia to the list of issues you’re working on?” Enjolras looked at him sharply and he shrugged. “I’m stage 4, inoperable, and they stopped the chemo because it wasn’t working. Figured it’d be good to keep my options open.”

For the first time, Enjolras was completely at a loss for words. He knew better than to apologize, having heard the gambit of apologies and sympathy himself, and settled for saying, a little awkwardly, “Why don’t you come to one of our meetings and we can discuss it?”

Snorting, Grantaire shook his head. “I don’t know if activist meetings are really my thing. Seems like kind of a waste for the last six months of my life, since I don’t really believe in any of that.”

“Then don’t come for the activist part,” Enjolras said boldly. “Come to make some friends and find some good people to spend the last six months of your life with. Better than this lot, anyway.”

Grantaire blinked at him. “Even you?” he asked, a little wryly.

Enjolras half-smiled. “Even me. I think you and I could have a lot to talk about.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Well, maybe, then,” he said gruffly. “I’ll have to check my schedule and see if I’m available. But I think I might be free. You’re going to be there, after all.”

“And what does that have to do with anything?” Enjolras asked.

Shrugging again, Grantaire settled back into his chair and put the unlit cigarette back in his mouth. “Everything,” he said simply. “Everything.”


	37. Courfeyrac/Marius - Diagnosed with a Terminal Illness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because, hey, there's nothing better for almost Thanksgiving than contemplating one's mortality.
> 
> **Obvious TW for terminal illness.**

Courfeyrac stared blankly at the nurse before turning to blink up at Marius. “I don’t want to die a virgin,” he whispered hoarsely. “Marius, will you have sex with me, before I die?”

Marius smacked his shoulder, trying to hide the tears that shone in his eyes. “You idiot,” he said, fondness mixed with exasperation mixed with utter fear at what was to come for both of them. “Firstly, you’re not a virgin. You literally fucked me last night. Secondly, this is really, _really_ serious!”

The tears did overflow at that, and Courfeyrac’s expression softened. He drew Marius closer to the hospital bed and reached up to wipe the tears from his cheeks. “I know that,” he said quietly. “Which is all the more reason to joke and laugh. If I only have--” He glanced over at the nurse. “How long?”

“Six months,” she said softly. “A year if you’re very, very lucky.”

Courfeyrac nodded and turned back to Marius. “If I only have six months, I’m not going to spend it moping around and feeling sorry for myself. I’m going to get as much done as I can, as much crossed off my bucket list as I can.”

Marius sniffled. “And having sex with me is on your bucket list.”

Courfeyrac grabbed his hand and kissed it. “Having sex with you every single day that I can is on my bucket list,” he corrected, then glanced back at the nurse, eyeing her thoughtfully. “Though having a threesome might also be on my bucket list.”

Both Marius and nurse smacked his shoulder for that, and Courfeyrac laughed. “Hey, terminally ill patient here!” he complained, and the nurse rolled her eyes.

“I’m going to step out in the hall and give you two a minute to discuss your options,” she said firmly, and Courfeyrac sighed, watching her go, then turned back to Marius.

“Ok, so maybe not with her, but a threesome is still on the table.”

Marius sighed, his expression falling, and he sat down heavily on the edge of Courfeyrac’s hospital bed. “I don’t want anything to be on the table,” he whispered. “I don’t want you to have to worry about your bucket list until you’re old and gray. I don’t--” His voice broke. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac whispered, his breath catching in his throat and with it, any words of comfort he might have attempted, because what comfort could be found in this? And how could he possibly comfort Marius when he was struggling with the growing anger and sadness and grief welling in his chest at this very moment?

So instead, he put an arm around Marius’s shoulders, and he pulled him down against himself, and he held him closely, offering the only comfort that he possibly could.


	38. Combeferre/Grantaire - Beautiful

"You’re beautiful."

Combeferre can’t seem to say it enough times, the words spilling out of his mouth often at bizarre or inopportune moments, when Grantaire’s just emerged from their bedroom with his t-shirt on backwards and hair sticking straight up, or when he’s curled in on himself in the armchair, abandoned, half-finished painting in the corner.

He doesn’t think he can say it enough because he  _knows_ that Grantaire has never heard it enough times, and if Combeferre has to spend the rest of his life repeating it to get Grantaire to believe even a sliver of the truth about himself, it would be entirely worth it.

"You’re beautiful."

Grantaire’s reactions range from the amused - the time in the kitchen when Grantaire wound up covered in flour, and Combeferre snuck up behind him, wrapping his arms around Grantaire’s waist and whispering it in his ear, and Grantaire had just turned, smeared batter on Combeferre’s nose, and told him gleefully, “No,  _you’re_ beautiful!” - to the shy - ducking his head, a blush blooming across his face that makes him all the more beautiful - to somewhere between anger and despair.

Those times are never good, when Grantaire gets that closed-off look on his face, when he retreats to their bedroom if he decides to stay in the apartment or else leaves, often without proper clothing, sometimes without shoes, because he despairs of the reminder that Combeferre, beautiful, perfect Combeferre, somehow thinks that way of him when he doesn’t  _deserve_ it.

He always comes back, sooner or later (sooner if it’s one of the times he’s forgotten his shoes), and when he does, Combeferre will pull him into a wordless embrace. Combeferre never apologizes in these instances; he has nothing to apologize for, just as surely as Grantaire does not need to apologize for his own neuroses.

"You’re beautiful."

And every now and again, at night when they’re alone in the bedroom together, clothes long since divested, the sheets tangled around them or kicked to the bottom of the bed, Combeferre will pin Grantaire to the sheets, straddling his thighs to keep him in place.

He’ll start at the top, kissing Grantaire’s forehead, each cheek, his nose (Grantaire always laughs helplessly at that, regardless of his mood), his lips sliding to nibble on Grantaire’s ear before nipping along his jaw to rest on Grantaire’s lips.

His tongue traces the column of Grantaire’s throat, kisses and bites pressed to the sensitive areas. His collarbone, his shoulders… Combeferre lifts one of Grantaire’s hands and presses a kiss to the palm, and then the other.

He kisses down Grantaire’s chest, flicks Grantaire’s nipples with his tongue and laughs as Grantaire shudders underneath him. Kisses the planes of his stomach. Draws his tongue down and kisses the ridges of Grantaire’s hipbones, the curling text tattooed there, rubbing his thumbs along his hips after his lips have moved on.

And in between every kiss, the same two words are whispered.

"You’re beautiful."

Combeferre will keep saying it until Grantaire believes it (and even then will keep saying it, simply because it is true).


	39. Joly/Combeferre - Graduation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some good ol' doctor-husbands fluff.

Combeferre stumbled out of the bedroom, cursing under his breath as he tugged at the zipper of his doctoral robe. He had tried it on when he first got it and it had worked fine but now, of course, on graduation day, the damn thing wouldn’t zip. He looked up to find Joly perched on the couch, dressed in his best suit, and sighed heavily before asking, “Can you help me?”

Joly was up in a flash, pushing Combeferre’s hands aside gently and zipping the robe before taking a step back and looking him up and down, his eyes seemingly suddenly wet. “Are you getting emotional?” Combeferre asked, almost accusingly.

"No!" Joly said defensively, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "If anything I should be celebrating the fact that you’re going to be done with grad school. Maybe you can start pulling some money in now, more than just your tiny stipend."

Combeferre snorted and pulled Joly close to him, kissing his cheek before saying wryly, “Ah, yes, I forgot how strapped for cash we are. Remind me again, how much does the average starting otolaryngologist make compared to the average first year professor? I probably would have been better off putting in for eighth year funding.”

It was Joly’s turn to snort. “As if they’d give it to you. I’m surprised they approved sixth year funding, let alone seventh. It’s not as if lepidopterology is a growing field.”

"Says the man who likes me to list all the scientific names of moths while he’s giving me head," Combeferre retorted, raising an eyebrow at Joly, who stared back at him without blushing.

"Do you want me to tell Enjolras that you’re kink shaming?"

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “No, thanks, having my best friend since childhood talk about a variety of sexual acts was mentally scarring the first time around, I don’t need a repeat.” He stepped back from Joly and adjusted his robe, looking down at it before spreading his arms out. “So. How do I look?”

Joly mimed wiping tears from his eyes. “My baby’s all grown up and getting his PhD.”

Looking closely at him, Combeferre said, “Mock all you want, I can see there’s real tears there. You  _are_ getting emotional.”

"It’s allergies," Joly said. "You know how my eyes get watery when everything starts to bloom. Holding graduation in the spring is the worst mistake of all time."

Combeferre smirked. “Uh-huh. Allergies. Well, make sure to pack some tissues.”

Joly gave him the finger. “Keep that up and I’ll wipe my nose on your goddamn robe.”

"You wouldn’t dare," Combeferre said, mock-scandalized.

Joly grinned and leaned in to kiss Combeferre on the tip of his nose. “Try me.” Then he pulled away, linking his fingers with Combeferre’s and tugging him towards the door. “Now come on, we’re going to be late. Oh, and don’t forget your tam.”

He stopped and turned to place it on top of Combeferre’s head, tilting it just right and beaming at him. “Now you look perfect. Let’s go get your degree so we can focus on getting drunk with all our friends.”

"Sounds good to me," Combeferre agreed with a smile, following Joly out the door.


	40. E/R - Knocking on the Wrong Door AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to everyone who has followed along with this compilation! Hopefully you enjoy this final ficlet!

No one knocked on Grantaire’s door. For one thing, it hung rather precariously on its hinges and about half the time, if someone knocked on it, it would swing open of its own volition. For another thing, all the people who would even come up to Grantaire’s door were friends of his, and they had a tendency to just walk in without knocking anyway.

So when someone _did_ knock on his door, rather late on the first Friday night in recent memory that Grantaire had elected to stay in, he looked up in abject confusion before slumping over to the door to open it and ask in a bored voice, “Can I help you?”

He did not expect for there be a blond god standing outside his door, and expected even less for said god to burst into song: “Oh, Feuilly, I think you’re cool / you didn’t even go to school / but you’re really smart / and you’re good at art / and this song makes me sound like a tool.”

“Well, I certainly can’t disagree with the last part,” Grantaire said dryly, and the blond did a double-take.

“Oh, shit,” he said, blushing furiously. “I, uh, I thought you were someone else.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “Feuilly, I’m assuming?” he said, smiling but trying to hide it. “His door’s down the hallway. Third on the left. Though I don’t think he’s in right now; I think he works Friday nights.”

“Right,” the blond said, hesitating before blurting, “You must think I’m an idiot.”

“Of course not,” Grantaire assured him. “A terrible singer, maybe, but the numbering in this building it really fucked up, so it’s not really your fault. I admit that I didn’t expect to be serenaded this evening, though.”

If possible, the blond blushed even further. “It was a dare,” he admitted. “My friends — well, they dared me to serenade whomever I have a crush on, and, well, at the moment that would be nobody, but they weren’t going to let it go, so I figured I’d serenade Feuilly, since he’s basically the greatest person that I’ve ever met.”

Grantaire grinned. “High words of praise from someone who claims not to have a crush on him.”

The blond rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that,” he insisted. “Feuilly’s cute, sure, but he’s definitely not my type.”

Grantaire leaned against the door frame and looked at the blond appraisingly. “So what _is_ your type?” he asked, his voice pitched low.

The blond was about to answer, but then his phone rang and he pulled it out and frowned down at it. “Shit, I have to go,” he said, glancing back up at Grantaire. “Sorry about the serenading.” He started down the hallway then stopped and called back, “My name’s Enjolras, by the way.”

“Grantaire!” Grantaire called after him, though he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like he was ever going to see him again.

* * *

It was a week later and Grantaire again elected to stay in on a Friday night. He couldn’t explain why — ok, well, he _could_ , but he certainly wasn’t going to tell his friends that he was staying in on the off-chance that the super hot guy who accidentally serenaded him last time might magically come back around and do it again. His friends already feared for his mental well-being, and this would not ease their fears much.

Which was why he almost fell off the couch when a knock sounded on the door again, and he ran faster than he cared to admit over to the door to fling it open, practically beaming when he saw it was again Enjolras standing there, looking almost nervous.

He tried to play it cool. “Back again,” he commented, as if this was an everyday occurrence and not something he’d been dreaming about for a week.

“Yeah.”

“On a dare again?”

Enjolras blushed. “Yeah.”

“What’s the dare this time?”

Enjolras took a deep breath. “Same dare as last time.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh,” he said, trying not to sound as crushed as he felt. “Feuilly’s door is down the hallway, third on the left.”

Enjolras’s blush deepened. “I know,” he said, voice low. “I, uh, I knocked on your door on purpose.”

For a moment, Grantaire just stared at him. Then he grinned, a sudden, genuine grin. “Well,” he said. “In that case, I’d love to hear the song that you came up with.”

“You said I was a terrible singer last time,” Enjolras said mildly.

“Then you can always skip the song and just kiss me,” Grantaire suggested.

Enjolras considered it for a moment, then shrugged. “Ok.” And so he did.


End file.
